


One Man's Hero

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Lovers, Hanzo Shimada Being An Asshole, Hanzo's Danger Kink, Jesse McCree Being an Asshole, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 87,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14188017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Hanzo Shimada is an assassin, a murderer, and decidedly not a hero, let alone a superhero — and yet.





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a _very_ loose superhero AU, in which I play with universes with absolutely no respect for any canon.

Hanzo opens the new chapter of his life by walking back to the dais and completing the ritual. 

Going through the familiar motions helps him refocus, centers him and dampens the whiplash; whether they make sense is a secondary matter. A change of form would help more, but the very thought of doing so in _this_ place fills his throat with a sudden taste of bile and makes him bare his teeth in a silent snarl.

The third time his eyes stray towards the feather laid out in front of him, he suddenly remembers about the other one, the one that not-Genji left behind before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. It couldn't have been Genji, but it must have been Genji, with the exact same penchant for unnecessary dramatics — he had always loved the smoke bomb maneuver, used to laugh at Hanzo's disapproval of circus-worthy stunts, it was as much of a staple in Genji's arsenal of tricks as the sparrowhawk feathers.

Slowly, reluctantly, he rises and goes to look. There it is, resting precariously on the very edge of the lower terrace, ready to be blown away by the slightest breeze; Hanzo stops, leans against the wooden pillar and waits for a gust of wind that would make the events of the night nothing more than a particularly ugly dream.

Nothing. A minute passes, two, in a silence broken only by his breathing and an occasional gentle clank of a _sōzu_ in the gardens below. The wind doesn't come.

The quill gleams in his fingers with the smooth perfection of hardlight: a data drive.

He takes it with him leaving Hanamura, and for three days he carries it around, unread but always in his pocket; accessing the contents of the microdrive feels like acknowledging the impossible fact of Genji's return from the dead. On the fourth day, after staring at it over a bottle of sake for the better part of an hour, he gives up.

The quill slots easily into his tablet. The microdrive is password protected. Hanzo closes his eyes against the urge to crush it in his fist, holds his breath, considers.
    
    
    Password:
    
    
    > sparrow
    
    
    Decrypting...

He bites his lip, hard. Of course.

The drive contains a single text document. The security scan finds nothing; Hanzo taps it open. A phone number — an American area code — and a set of coordinates. Nothing more.

Genji's love of dramatics, again.

Hanzo stares at the number, closes his eyes, rubs his forehead, pours another cup of sake. A quick map check proves that the coordinates point to a rural, mountainous area thirty kilometers outside Nagoya.

His flight to Shanghai leaves in four hours.

_It's time to pick a side._

Hanzo scoffs harshly, draining the cup. In his line of work there are no sides, only bidders, and those who pay for his services today may very well find themselves unwilling recipients of his attention tomorrow. He pulls the drive out without bothering to close the document and turns it in his fingers: the delicate hardlight vane, an unnecessary decoration, has already begun fraying at the edges. Hanzo rips it off with one movement and watches the construct flicker and disappear. He would have to apply a bit more force to destroy the drive itself.

Twice he picks it up with both hands, ready to snap it in half, and each time he puts it down again, tiny and dangerous like a scorpion.

His tablet chimes with a reminder of the upcoming flight. Leave now, it says; expect heavy traffic on parts of the Chuo expressway. The assistant lights up with an alternative route, Tomei through Yokohama. Not much faster.

Hanzo shoves the drive into his pocket and stands. He has a flight to catch and a job to do.

* * *

_Six weeks later_

  


The newest job is almost too easy. Truthfully, anyone with a pair of functioning eyes could carry out the hit, and the escape shouldn't pose much more of a problem, but Hanzo isn't usually hired just to kill these days; his expensive services are a means to send a message. 

One could say that Hanzo is in fashion in certain parts of the society.

He mixes with the partygoers easily. Sano Tatsuki fancies himself a patron of the arts and a large number of guests are distinctly bohemian in appearance: colorful clothing, colorful hair, gleam and glitter, plastic and metal, hardlight and glass. Compared to some, Hanzo looks positively understated with his undercut, a handful of piercings and clothes that cover most of his body and aren't even the slightest bit see-through. His level of extravagance is a carefully calculated average: he doesn't want to draw attention by being either too flashy or too somber.

He meanders through the crowd slowly, with the benign smile of someone moderately stoned, careful not to take too straight a course towards his destination. There is a considerable chance that he _will_ get affected by all of the secondhand smoke he's inhaling. No matter — it shouldn't slow him down, not unless he indulges in alcohol, too. Hanzo has no plans to indulge. The crowds make his skin crawl, and he prefers to get drunk in safety of his own hideout, later.

The tables are already besieged. Hanzo knows of two professions that will descend upon any free food like a wake of vultures: artists and engineers. There is a real, albeit small, risk that the table which bears the case with his bow and arrows will get emptied and rolled out before he manages to elbow his way to it. He's lucky; he catches the eye of a steward, a handsome young man, he lets his smile grow suggestive and his eyes roam appreciatively, and one inane conversation and one phone number in his pocket later, he's at the table. All that remains is to wait, drop a fork at an opportune moment and reach underneath when no one is looking.

Security doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to yet another musician with an instrument case slung across his back, and the _bonbori_ -lit garden has plenty of dark spaces with a sufficient line of sight to the stage. Hanzo could assemble and string the bow blindfolded, this soft darkness doesn't even slow his movements, and with the bow safely hidden in an azalea shrub, he sits under a maple tree and waits, listening to the music that carries throughout the garden.

Sano Tatsuki, the fifth most wealthy individual in Japan, patron of the arts, hobbyist performer, sexual predator and serial blackmailer, dies a truly spectacular death from a neurotoxin-dipped arrow after he steps on the stage to perform his rendition of a famous monodrama "The Fever", the moment after the monologue reaches the phrase "Your love of beauty could actually kill you."

The message has been sent.

* * *

Escaping the garden is as trivial as entering it has been. The bow leaves no smoke, makes no noise, and all he needs to do is fold it quickly and join the unstoppable stampede of a panicked crowd while the grisly noises of Sano's agony rattle through the speakers. The sound engineers clearly haven't thought of disabling his microphone yet. It is a nice touch, Hanzo thinks wryly; his employer should be more than pleased with the final effect.

He drags his feet while walking back to the car. The night is warm, stiflingly so, the satisfaction of a task well executed refuses to come, and he has no other jobs lined up, no goal to pursue other than the increasing urge to get drunk and pass out in the tiny flat he rents on the other side of the city. Perhaps he should have indulged in the pleasures of the party instead of just waiting for his cue, should have had a smoke or a drink or maybe even a quick tryst with the bright-eyed steward; he would've had to be blind drunk to miss that shot, and a dose of endorphins could have carried him through to another day.

Too late to regret it now, anyway.

His phone rings with an intrusion alert before he makes it out of Meitō-ku. A long, high-pitched signal of the kitchen window sensor transitions into the frantic beeping of the motion detector in the living room, and by the time he finds a place to stop the car, pulls out the tablet and opens the slow-loading monitoring app, the cameras have already been destroyed. The adrenaline dissipates as fast as it appeared: there is nothing he can do, no point going back now, not when the intruders have the strategic advantage while already outnumbering him, judging by the readings of the motion detector, at least three to one.

He closes his eyes and briefly tips his head back against the headrest. He quite liked that flat: quiet, sunny, minimally furnished, a good place to rest between travels.

At least this time he did not leave anything of personal value behind.

He gives himself a moment to mourn another addition to the long list of places he's been forced to abandon, lets out a slow breath, starts the car and turns towards the Nagoya Station. It's less than a twenty minutes' ride through emptying streets, during which Hanzo lets himself think of nothing at all. The monotony of driving works almost as well as meditation, and by the time he pulls in at a temporary parking spot in front of the twin towers of the station, he is back in the state of numbness that passes for calm these days. The car rolls away as soon as it's dismissed, and Hanzo mixes into the crowd.

Most passengers in need of luggage storage go for the touchscreen-operated lockers near the southern entrance; he walks right past those and further north, towards the old-fashioned ones with physical locks, because he would rather not leave his fingerprints around if he can help it and a key-operated locker can't be hacked by a random bored teenager waiting for a train. He leaves the area five hundred yen poorer and with a duffel bag over his shoulder, heads towards the toilets, locks himself in the farthest in a long row of cabins and rummages in the bag for a pink plastic phone adorned with a pachimari charm.

As soon as the 110 picks up, Hanzo cups it close to his face, affects a shaky, hushed voice of a frightened civilian, rattles out that he saw armed people, at least three of them, and there was a sound that might have been a gunshot, then recites the address of his apartment in the suburbs and disconnects before he's asked to identify himself. On a whim, he detaches the pachimari from the phone before he crushes it under his foot, and clips the little charm onto a D-ring on the strap of his backpack.

The shattered remains of the phone land in the trash in the station's nearest Starbucks. Hanzo buys a large, triple-shot latte, glances at the layout of cameras, drops his bags in a pile and sits in a corner, with his back safely to the wall.

Tiredness washes over him in a bitter wave. He could send a confirmation to his current employer, but it would be a waste of another phone; they will know of his success soon enough. He has no reason to go back to the apartment — whoever is waiting for him there will, hopefully, soon be occupied with a visit from an armed response unit — and no pressing need to take another job, his accounts padded enough that even tonight's contract he had accepted more out of appreciation for the concept than anything else. The thought of searching for another decent place to rent nauseates him.

He should probably relocate to another city, anyway. Chances are that property rentals in Nagoya are already being monitored. 

The urge to rest his head on crossed arms, just for a moment, is overwhelming, but he absolutely cannot afford the risk of falling asleep in public. The soft music coming from the speakers doesn't help. Hanzo takes a long gulp of the coffee, reaches to rub the bridge of his nose with the other hand and startles a little when his fingers touch metal. He completely forgot about the piercing, already healed thanks to the achievements of modern medicine and judicious application of biotics. He should probably take it out as soon as he can. What was tastefully understated at one of Sano Tatsuki's parties is no longer so on the streets, and the last thing he needs at this moment is to draw attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, he finally notices he is being watched. 

At this hour, the cafe is nearly empty except for a few regulars, hunched over their laptops and tablets, and the baristas have nothing to do. One of them, the plump girl with startlingly blue hair who brewed his coffee, has been staring at him openly for who knows how long now. Hanzo tenses over his coffee. Surely he hasn't been recognized? He's not officially wanted, not to his knowledge, and even if he was, the haircut and the piercings are a drastic enough departure from his usual style that they should provide a sufficient disguise—

She smiles at him from behind the counter and gives a little wave. Oh.

He's so tired and out of it that it takes him way too long to smile back and raise his fingers in a greeting. The girl clearly doesn't mind, because she picks something out of the fridge and heads straight for his table.

"Hi again," she says and puts a cup of matcha pudding right in front of him. "Long day, huh?"

Hanzo blinks at the little green pot. "I did not—"

"It's on the house." She has dimples and more piercings than his disguise, and the smile looks genuine. "You looked like you could use a little pick-me-up, and sugar makes everything better. I'll bring you a spoon in just a second. Would you like some whipped cream on top?"

"…Yes, please," he says finally. "Thank you."

"No problem. I'll be right back."

He should probably offer her more than just a smile in exchange for the kindness. He should express his appreciation and strike up a meaningless conversation, if only to make himself less of a memorable guest than he has already, and he's in the process of steeling himself for it when he's unexpectedly relieved of the need to do so: the girl sprays a generous dollop of whipped cream onto his pudding, sticks a spoon directly into it, says "Life will look better tomorrow morning, you'll see," and briskly leaves.

It's not likely, but he can at least resist muttering it under his breath, send her a smile of thanks instead and lick the first bittersweet mouthful off the spoon. _It’s time to start!_ , proclaims the English phrase on the side of the cup, and he doesn't know if it's because of the electric green color of the packaging or the words themselves, but it makes him think of the encounter in Hanamura and the cyborg wearing Genji's eyes.

_The world is changing once again, Hanzo, and it's time to pick a side._

Genji and his stupid dramatic declarations. What does that even mean? The world is just the same as it was yesterday and it will be the same tomorrow, the rich feeding on the poor, the strong preying on the weak, and in the middle of it Hanzo, stuck in an endless cycle of attempting to regain something that can never be truly recovered once lost.

The data drive still sits in the breast pocket of his jacket, untouched, with its phone number and coordinates of a place that he has not yet visited despite being an hour's drive away. Of all the courses of action available to him at this moment, calling an unknown number left by the ghost of his murdered brother is at least not _guaranteed_ to be unpleasant.

He dips a hand in the pocket. For a brief, adrenaline-filled moment he thinks he lost the drive, but no, it's there, tangled in the lint and dusty, but intact. Despite his expectations, it still works, the password still decrypts, the data is still there. Hanzo saves the number under ???, marks the coordinates on the map as ?????, stares for a moment at his short contact list, then presses the call button.

Silence, then a pleasant, feminine, robotic voice: "We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service."

"Genji gave me this number," he interrupts and sticks another spoonful of matcha-flavored sweetness in his mouth.

More silence. "Good evening, Mr. Tanaka. Are you still in possession of the coordinates?"

Hanzo barely contains a snort: it's like he's suddenly in a spy movie. "Yes."

"Will you be able to appear there tomorrow, at ten P.M. your time?"

It may very well be a trap. The cyborg could have been a Shimada puppet, taught Genji's mannerisms and the basic history of their conflict, but for a puppet, he was unusually skilled, and if it is a trap, it's a really unnecessarily elaborate one. As the events of today have proven, Hanzo doesn't put a whole lot of effort into avoiding the assassins. He doesn't normally have to. Had he been present in the flat at the moment of the break-in, before the intruders had the chance to entrench themselves, he would have likely dispatched them just as the countless others beforehand. 

In the end, curiosity and the lack of more appealing options win over caution. "Yes."

"Excellent. We're looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Tanaka."

"Likewise," he mutters and disconnects the call.

 _We_. So the mysterious entity which Genji wants him to contact is plural. Some sort of an organization, most likely. The number's country code means nothing and neither does the voice's accent, both easily changeable with a basic grasp on technology, and the whole mysterious shtick reeks of Genji from a mile away. If the second-to-last — or last? — time they saw each other his brother wasn't bleeding out on the floor, he could almost be convinced that he's being set up for an elaborate prank.

He opens the map again and zooms in on the marked location, angling the screen away from the cameras. It's in the middle of nowhere, a perfect location for an ambush; should he walk into one, nobody would come to his aid. Hanzo closes the map decisively: not that there's anyone who would, anyway, regardless of the situation, and maybe he owes it to Genji to go there and finally get himself killed.

In the meantime, he has to find a means to spend the night. The easiest and least dangerous option would be to rent another car, program it to make a round or two along the expressways circling the city and sleep inside. A decent capsule hotel would be a reasonably safe and stationary alternative. Both would mean no washing until at least tomorrow night. He immediately abandons both ideas, scraping the last of the matcha sauce out of the container: hygiene is not optional, not in this weather and not when the only clothes he has readily available are the ones on his back and the emergency set in the duffel. Hotel it is, and if they come after him in the night, then so be it. He hasn't had a challenging fight for some time now.

The station's Marriott is a two-minute walk and an elevator ride away. Hanzo bows and thanks the barista with a smile on the way out; it's counterproductive to avoiding notice, and she will definitely remember him now if she wasn't going to already, but he finds that he doesn't care anymore. Caffeine, sugar and adrenaline have done their job, he has a new goal to pursue, however vague, and he's itching for a fight. If someone follows him, let them come.

* * *

The coordinates point to a place just off route 609, at the foot of the Yōrō Mountains. Hanzo arrives early, partially to scout the area before nightfall and partially propelled by sheer impatience: with his possessions temporarily reduced to the contents of his bags and the clothes on his back, he feels unmoored and aimless, and he knows from long experience that he needs something to focus on before the inertia sets in. The afternoon air, hot and humid, sends sweat trickling down his back. He can already smell himself; he will reek soon if he doesn't get some shopping done.

According to the map, he'll need to continue on foot and head into the forest, up the gentle slope of the mountain. There is a sign pointing towards a nearby Shinto shrine at the spot where he leaves the car, and the prospect of paying respects to the _kami_ is a whole lot more appealing than climbing the path before the sun comes down a little lower. The sign leads him through the wooden gate and up a narrow flight of stairs shadowed by trees, the surrounding greenery lush after the rainy season, and he closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, inhaling the green, earthy scents, cleansing his nostrils of the acrid smell of the car.

A small stone figurine of a dragon watches him as he purifies himself at the _temizuya_. It looks so remarkably like one of the guardian spirits of his clan, down to the horns and long flowing whiskers, that Hanzo, usually not given to superstition, decides to treat it as a good omen.

He doesn't linger long at the shrine. Despite his best attempts to quieten himself and absorb the silent stillness of the place, he is still too much on edge to harmonize with its peaceful aura. He can almost feel the ripples of discord caused by his presence. He's better at tamping down his emotions without resorting to the change these days, but the thought of taking a step into a complete unknown, possibly a trap, is clearly too much for his limited capabilities; if he doesn't leave or calm down, he's more likely to offend the _kami_ than he is to appease them. Hanzo gives the _kami_ a last deep bow, casts a regretful look at the little shadowy garden surrounding the shrine, emerges into the unforgiving sunlight and descends back towards the road.

The satellite pictures showed his destination as a simple clearing in the woods, and they did not lie. There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in either the sandy road that snakes up the mountain's slope, or the clearing itself. No vehicles, no buildings, not a soul in sight and no trace of recent human activity, just an empty, quiet space in the middle of the forest, trees that used to grow there felled either by a natural event or a human hand. He stashes his gear under one of the oaks and scouts the area anyway in the lengthening shadows of the setting sun, but finds nothing except a couple of thrushes in the trees surrounding the clearing. Whoever he is meant to meet here, they have not arrived yet.

There is nothing left to do but sit in _seiza_ under an oak tree, some distance away from the edge of the clearing, in silence interrupted only by a thrush singing its song somewhere above, and repeatedly fail to clear his mind through meditation.

* * *

The plane lands twenty minutes before the agreed time, black, unlit and disconcertingly quiet. Hanzo crouches motionlessly in the underbrush and watches its nearly perfectly vertical, lift-fan-assisted descent onto the clearing. After the engines cut off, it just sits there in the darkness, dark and vaguely menacing, no lights of any kind, not even from the cockpit; it's the stuff conspiracy theorists' worst nightmares are made of, and it has even more of a spy movie vibe to it than yesterday's phone call. 

Hanzo does not move, waiting, a hand on his bow, coiled and ready to draw.

The rear of the plane falls open with an even mechanical hum, revealing an equally dark interior. Hanzo takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and carefully allows the change to ripple trough him, just slightly, enough to reach his eyes and ears and sharpen his senses, and wash him in a wave of cool clarity. He cracks his eyelids open slowly, just in case whoever is in that plane decides to turn on a source of light, but there is none.

Of all the sights he might have expected, a short, skinny girl in a bomber jacket wasn't one.

She stands at the top of the ramp for a while, squinting, then runs a hand through the shock of dark hair, suddenly crosses her legs and sits down, right where she stood, leans back on her arms and looks up with a loud sigh.

Involuntarily, he glances up as well. With the relative lack of light pollution here in the mountains, the stars are easily visible through the tree's wide canopy, even more so with his enhanced vision; it's quite an aesthetically appealing sight, not that he is in the mood to appreciate it at the moment. He looks back to the plane, searching for threats, but there is no movement in the shadows behind the girl, and no sounds other than the forest humming with life around him and the arrhythmic popping of slowly cooling engines.

The presumed pilot sighs again and reaches to unzip and shrug off her jacket. Hanzo's breath momentarily stops because there's a glowing circular device strapped on a harness in the center of her chest, and in that instant he knows why something about her seemed vaguely familiar. He has seen her many times before, in newspapers and on TV. 

Just _how_ did Genji manage to get in contact with a member of Overwatch?

He cannot help himself: he stares. It really seems to be her, even though she's not supposed to be still and quiet like this. On TV, she had always fidgeted, giggled, talked a mile a minute, youthful energy impersonated; now, sitting there, unmoving, presumably waiting for him to show up, she looks unsettlingly like a puppet with its strings cut. Is she here to apprehend him? She's alone, not visibly armed, and either relaxed or doing a very good impression of being so. If it is a trap, he cannot see how it's supposed to be sprung.

On the other hand, she is, or has been, Overwatch, which means she's capable of things not achievable to a normal human being. 

That thought finally shakes him out of the surprised hesitation, because he is not a normal human being either, and it's shameful that he's sitting here in hiding, as if he should be afraid of a single woman about half his size. He has to wait for a moment for his no-longer-enhanced eyes to get used to the darkness again, but then he stands up slowly, slings the bow case across his back, shoulders the bag, and with the bow not drawn but an arrow nocked, he steps quietly into the clearing.

She doesn't even notice him at first, and only after he purposefully makes his steps loud she turns her head with a start and jumps to her feet, with the speed that finally fits her presumed identity. "Hi!" she exclaims, winces at how loud her voice rings out in the silence and lowers the volume somewhat. "Sorry about the blackout, but literally nothing about me being here is legal. Hope you had no problems finding the place anyway."

Hanzo stops a few paces away from the ramp, fingers loose on the string of the bow. "You're Tracer. The Overwatch Tracer." It comes out sounding unintentionally accusatory, but she doesn't seem to mind, judging by the wide smile he gets in return.

"Lena Oxton, pleased to make your acquaintance," she says and raises a hand in a jaunty wave. "I'd shake hands, but yours seem to be occupied. I'm not actually armed, so don't shoot me, please. And come inside, I'll turn on the lights so we don't have to stand in the dark."

He does not move from the spot. "Are you here to arrest me?"

Tracer snorts, expressive and very unladylike. "For what? And do I look like a copper? I'm only here to give you a ride, love. Assuming you're the one I was supposed to meet here, that is, because I have to say you look quite different than I expected."

"Hanzo," he says tersely. "At your service."

"So it is you. I don't mind telling you that you look _a lot_ fitter than the picture." She smiles again, bright and guileless, and if she is hiding any ill intentions, she is doing it exceedingly well. "I wish I had the balls to get my face pierced, I really do. Uh," her face falls just as quickly as the smile appeared, "I didn't just insult you, did I?"

"No," he manages, reeling a little from the unexpected turn of conversation.

"Phew." The smile is back, relieved. "My mouth gets ahead of me, sometimes. Anyway, you don't have to come at all. Even if I could, I'm absolutely not gonna force you. The people I work for just want to have a chat with you. You could call it a job interview, I guess."

It cannot be Overwatch. Overwatch was delegalized years ago, and before that it consisted of heroes, not murderers. "Where would you be taking me?"

"To New York," she says and giggles at the sight of his incredulous expression. "Did not expect that one, eh? Of course I'm gonna fly you right back here if you don't want to make a deal."

Hanzo balks. "You want to fly me across half the globe to just _talk_? What is it that they want to talk about that can't be discussed on the phone?"

"Sorry, love," she chirps, "I'm not allowed to talk business. I'm just a glorified cabbie, really. And I don't wanna push you or anything, but make up your mind quickly, because I'm _fairly_ sure I got here under the radar, but someone might have heard the engines. I don't want to get shot at on my way out — I mean, nobody's going to shoot this baby down while I'm piloting, but if I cause an international incident they'll skin me alive."

Tracer sticks her hands in the pockets of her leggings and bounces on the balls of her feet impatiently, and Hanzo hesitates. She could be lying and it could still be a trap which he's about to willingly step into, but… what does he have to lose?

"Very well," he sighs. "Lead the way."

Every instinct warns him against following her inside the aircraft, especially when the ramp jolts and starts closing behind them, threatening to lock him in a claustrophobic darkness, but there's a sound of switches being flipped, the lights come on, painfully bright, and he breathes easier and loosens the grip on the bow.

"You can drop your stuff here, if you want," she says, pointing at an empty rack crisscrossed with securing tapes. "Or not, if it makes you feel better, but the bow won't fit in the cockpit, I'm afraid."

Wordlessly, he shrugs off the bags and starts disassembling the bow.

"Brill. Come to the cockpit when you're ready. Drinks are in the fridge and the loo is that way, and," she raises her jacket demonstratively before putting it on, "if you have anything warmer to wear, I recommend you do it. It's bloody hot in here, but it's going to get cold really quickly when we're in the air, and the heating doesn't always keep up."

The plane comes to life around him with more of a loud growl than a roar of engines. He secures his gear in the rack, pulls the jacket on and decides to carry the backpack to the cockpit: the plane might be high-tech, but unless it can teleport, this is going to be a long journey. He might as well have his tablet at hand.

"Strap in," Tracer says cheerfully, pointing at the copilot's seat with her chin. "We're about to take off."

Hanzo raises his eyebrows and sits in the chair, so unexpectedly comfortable that he almost forgets to voice his surprise. "You're not afraid I might try to hijack the controls?"

To her credit, she doesn't seem surprised by the question. "Biometrically locked," she replies with a grin. "And the copilot is an expert system. _And_ I may not look like it, but I can knock you out before you even figure out which way is up, mate."

After he recovers from a startled chuckle, the first time he genuinely laughed in weeks, if not months, he decides he quite likes her.

* * *

Once the novelty of the stealthy hybrid jet wears off, the exhaustion comes back, and the plush memory foam chair only makes it worse. No matter how badly his mind and body clamor for rest, Hanzo can't sleep in the vicinity of a stranger, or on a plane that carries him to a meeting with an unknown entity half the world away. Tracer obviously does not share his compunction, because once they're above the ocean and at the desired altitude, she simply hands the controls over to the autopilot, announces that she needs a short kip, dims the lights and tilts the chair back, and she's asleep a minute later.

Just like that. Next to a man she met an hour earlier. A man who makes a living by killing other people.

Hanzo stares at her for a while, two parts disapproving and one part jealous, wondering if she's really this foolish, or simply this certain of her ability to disable him before he can cause harm. She didn't even make him relinquish his weapons. Were he to reach for the razor-sharp knife he carries in his pocket, would she even wake up in the second it would take him to slice her throat? The biometrically locked controls must be the reason of her confidence. She probably assumes he is not homicidal — or suicidal — enough to try and harm her when she's the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the ocean. Hanzo huffs quietly and extracts himself from the warm confines of the chair: he might not be, but if she knows anything about him, she should also know that the assumption is entirely unwarranted.

It was already noticeable from the outside, even in the darkness, but it's even more obvious now that this is not a standard aircraft. It is not only private, but it's nothing like any of the multitude of planes he has flown before. The interior is just one big, open space, with nothing but the back seats separating the cockpit from the rest — perhaps because apart from the vast cockpit window there aren't any other, not even portholes in the walls packed tightly with equipment, displays and seats.

Hanzo drops to one knee and runs a finger along the vibrating, worn-smooth edge of a groove in the floor. Looks like there's more equipment hiding underneath, ready to emerge at a press of a button somewhere.

The whole craft is clearly well maintained, decently clean, and often used judging by the small signs of continued exploitation. From where he's crouched, he can see moderate wear on the personnel seats under each wall and the protective mats on the floor, numerous scuff marks on the equipment racks, even chipped paint on the handle of the minifridge. He stands up, opens the fridge, contemplates its many and varied contents and pulls out a neon-orange can of an energy drink; since he's not planning to sleep tonight, he might as well give himself a boost to be able to at least think clearly.

Tracer doesn't stir when he returns to his chair, even though he makes no attempt to stay silent as he opens the can. Her arms are folded tightly over the bulky bomber jacket hiding the device on her chest, making her look even younger and more fragile than before. She can't be as young as she looks, because it's been years since Overwatch was forced to disband, and yet it feels so viscerally _wrong_ to watch her like this, peaceful and innocent in the presence of a killer, that Hanzo has to look away. 

Perhaps these mysterious individuals who are so eager to talk to him simply haven't seen fit to inform their pilot exactly whom she would be providing transportation. 

Are they fools, then, or simply ruthless?

He settles on 'fools' — ruthless or not, risking the life of a highly qualified and famous pilot, not to mention the integrity of the state-of-the-art aircraft, is stupid beyond imagination — and not at all reassured by that fact, he reaches for his tablet to while away the sleepless hours between him and his destination.

The cockpit is quiet bar the sound of engines and lit only by the multitude of controls, and the ocean glitters down below, its waves like tiny ripples in the light of the waxing gibbous moon. Hanzo glances through the window and pauses: it's been a long while since he saw so many stars, dwelling in large, light-polluted cities due to the necessities of his particular craft. He is not used to seeing more than the few brightest constellations anymore. In his skies, there's usually the Orion's belt, the Big Bear, the Swan, maybe Cassiopeia when the air is clear, but now he can't even find any of them among the millions of bright dots, and when he realizes he's looking at the clearly visible arm of the Milky Way, he lets his hand with the tablet fall slowly back into his lap and simply watches for a while, absorbing the unexpected beauty.

It's… peaceful. Too peaceful, and soon it becomes clear that he is actually at a risk of nodding off if he doesn't occupy his mind properly. Hanzo opens a thriller novel he bought months ago and hasn't had an inclination to read since, pushes deeper into the comfortable embrace of the chair and forgets about stars in favor of a grisly murder.

* * *

Tracer wakes up the same way she fell asleep — as if someone threw a switch: opens her eyes, sits up straight, returns the chair to an upright position in one sudden jolt.

"You're not sleeping?" she asks and frowns at two empty energy drink cans next to Hanzo's seat.

"Too excited." It's the first excuse he comes up with, but his voice is hoarse from the plane's recycled air and flat from exhaustion, and the effect is so unintentionally hilarious that even he can recognize it, and Tracer snorts with laughter.

"I was told you'd be a riot," she says, shaking her head. "Now I see why."

She busies herself with pilot things for some time, while Hanzo considers going for a third drink. Combined with the lack of sleep, it's guaranteed to upset his stomach and it would be foolish to put himself at such a disadvantage from the start, but the monotonous hum of engines is starting to lull him again, and the words in the book he's attempting to read are beginning to blur.

"Perfect. No one spotted us and the weather's brilliant, it should be a smooth ride until California." Tracer finishes whatever she was doing, pulls her legs up, hugs her knees and turns towards him in a slow spin of the chair. "We'll have to refuel once we hit the west coast, but until then it's looking to be a boring flight. You should really try to get some rest. Jetlag's going to be murder even without the sleep deprivation on top."

Admittedly, he's almost tempted. If only he could shift, dampen the unease and enhance his senses to have a guarantee of waking up in time if she tried to get near him — but it's not an option, not when she clearly doesn't know much about him, and most likely has no idea about his abilities. Best case, he would unnecessarily lose an advantage; worst case, she could react with fear or aggression, superhuman or not.

"I'll pass," he says instead, as briskly as he can manage to stop further suggestions.

"Well, suit yourself. Wanna play a game instead?" Before he can form a coherent response, she pulls a fold-out tray out of a compartment to the right of her seat and opens it to form a table between them. "We've got a bunch of boardgames in the back, 'cause long flights suck and pilot's life is not as exciting as it looks when you've got an a— an expert system for a copilot. Do you play scrabble?"

It's late. It's dark. He has lost most of his less consequential possessions, and a couple of important ones, in the last forty-eight hours. He's on a strange aircraft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with a woman who for all intents and purposes can be classified as a superhero and considers him harmless enough to sleep in his presence, and now he's being offered a game that he used to enjoy long ago, in a different life, and the feeling of having fallen down the rabbit hole intensifies and crests — and Hanzo abruptly gives up.

"I do," he says and tosses the tablet onto the seat behind him. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." She smiles brightly and jumps out of her chair with the kind of excessive energy that reminds him of a child. "It's instant and utter shite but it's still caffeine, right? I'll make you some on the way."

"No need to trouble yourself, I can do it."

That gets him an exasperated glance over her shoulder. "I'm not going to poison you, but be my guest."

Technically, the coffee could already have been poisoned before he came on board, but he decides against pointing that out as he follows her to the back of the plane. The water heater and boxes of instant beverages are in a little nook next to the minifridge, and he flips the switch on the heater and empties a sachet of dubious brown granules into a paper cup while Tracer digs in a storage locker under the equipment rack. The box she produces bears as much evidence of frequent use as everything else on this plane; it's definitely a piece of the puzzle that is the identity of his would-be interlocutors, although Hanzo is at a loss as to what to make of it.

The coffee is so bad he shudders after the first gulp. "This is disgusting," he says, unable to completely purge the indignation out of his voice, and Tracer only laughs, sets up the worn game board on the table between their seats, and lets him make the first move on account of being the guest.

Hanzo is no stranger to games, but they are always part of a disguise these days. He plays cards and dice, bets at races and fights, sometimes participates in a game of chess or go, and on one memorable occasion he has even gone golfing, but he doesn't remember the last time he played a game for his own satisfaction and in the company of someone who was neither his mark nor his employer. Now, as he sips the horrible, acidic beverage that has the gall to call itself coffee and attempts to wrangle random letters into meaningful words, he discovers all of a sudden that he is actually enjoying himself.

Tracer is amusingly passionate about the game, and argues incessantly over two-letter words in particular. Having successfully defended his 'gi', he objects to her 'ta' mostly out of spite, doesn't even notice when he slips into a comfortable rhythm of bickering like he would with an old friend, and when he finally does realize, he just doesn't have the energy anymore to summon an appropriate level of gravitas.

"You're not what I expected from a hitman," she says suddenly, and he freezes for a moment with a tile between his fingers before forcibly relaxing his muscles and raising his head to look her in the eye — but she's not looking at him at all, she's shuffling the letters on her rack. "Always imagined that if I met one, it would be this dark and grim dude in a pressed suit, with sunglasses glued to his face and no sense of humor."

He smirks before he can stop himself. "I have repeatedly been told that I have no sense of humor. And I do own a suit. Several, in fact." Technically he doesn't, not at the moment, but that's a detail she doesn't need to know.

Now she looks up at him, grinning. "And sunglasses?"

Hanzo inclines his head towards the backpack on the chair behind him. "In there."

"And I certainly didn't expect the bow. Well, I mean, I was told you're an archer, but you know, for the actual job, I would have thought something more along the lines of a… silenced pistol, maybe?"

"I am a specialist," he says pointedly and decides to prevent further questions about his choice of weapon. "So you _do_ know who I am. I did wonder, after you fell asleep in my presence."

"Well, you weren't hired to off _me_ ," she replies cheekily, "and you can't be dumb enough to try and kill the pilot of a plane you're on, or you wouldn't have survived long in this line of work. And I didn't bluff, I'm pretty sure I can knock you out before you manage to hurt me." She taps the knuckles of her right hand against the device hidden under her jacket. "I've got technology on my side."

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve myself," he says mildly, laying out a new word. "You shouldn't trust in your abilities so blindly."

Tracer huffs, watches him update the score, then looks back at her letters with a half-smile. "You're also not the first killer I know, not by a long shot, and I'd say I can judge people well enough by now to see that you don't plan to cut my throat."

 _Not the first killer_. An interesting detail. "I thought Overwatch consisted of heroes, not killers."

She shrugs. "Overwatch has been gone for years. And you of all people should know that one man's hero is another man's villain."

Hanzo scowls at his tiles, fails to find a lighthearted retort, and for a moment considers asking just how much she knows — does she know about Genji? Does she _know_ Genji? — but asking would mean giving her free information if she doesn't, and potentially compromising himself if she does, and he really would rather continue this moment of unexpected enjoyment, instead.

"Sorry, love," she adds after a while in a somewhat subdued tone, "I didn't mean to poke at old wounds."

"It's fine," he says curtly and focuses on winning the game.

He does win in the end, partially through luck, partially through hoarding his 'S'. Tracer gripes about it in a way that clearly invites some gloating, so he indulges, jokingly and only a little, and he's so distracted that he completely forgets to hide his yawn while she gathers the tiles.

"Now that we had a heart to heart," she asks wryly, "are you finally going to sleep or should I turn on the music?"

It's so late that 'late' has turned into 'early', and the sky in the east is already brightening with the reds and yellows of an impending sunrise. The caffeine has lost any effect long ago. Hanzo feels exhausted by the constant tension and strangely comforted by the game and the refreshing honesty of their talk, and his scrambled brain refuses to even remember why he thought he wouldn't be able to sleep in the first place.

"Please do not touch me to wake me up," he mutters, tilting the chair back and barely restraining a groan at the sudden and glorious horizontality.

Tracer snickers. "You _bet_ I won't. I told you, I know killers. I'll give you a shout from a safe distance when we get to Cali."

He falls asleep thinking that even if this ends the way he's anticipating, even if he gets ambushed or detained or just simply killed, the unexpected comfort of this night will make it a lot more worthwhile, and if he survives, he will be honored to have Tracer as an enemy.

* * *

Apparently, the illegality of the plane and its mission doesn't extend to the territory of the United States, because when he wakes up, subconsciously alerted by the change of altitude, he finds that they are descending towards Los Angeles International in broad daylight.

Refueling takes perhaps twenty minutes, but between the queue to land, Tracer's trip to the terminal to buy food, and the queue to take off again, they spend almost an hour on the ground. Hanzo stays put, a very illegal passenger that he is, and spends the time examining and discarding various theories about this mysterious group that Genji wants him to talk to. It could be that one of the mafia families is looking to recruit him, but Genji has never treated his yakuza allegiance as anything more than a means to afford his pleasures, and it's hard to imagine him willingly joining another criminal organization. It could be that he is flying into a trap, and Genji will have his revenge by handing him over to one of his multiple enemies. It could be simply that someone in New York has need of a specialist assassin, but then why would Genji talk about picking sides?

By the time Tracer comes back bearing the biggest coffee the airport cafe could produce and a bento that is actually quite edible by American standards, Hanzo is still none the wiser, and his attempts to pull some more information out of her are as fruitless as they were before.

"You'll know in about five hours, love," she says as they're about to take off and puts on her headset with an air of finality, and for lack of better options, Hanzo dozes off again.

The next time he wakes up, it's to "Ride of the Valkyries" blasting from the cockpit speakers.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Shimada!" Tracer shouts over the thunderous music. She grins when he responds with a scowl and a wince, and reaches for the controls to lower the volume to a bearable level. "Sorry about the wakeup call. Thought you might want to be awake for the descent."

Ahead of them, New York is a sea of lights in the rapidly falling night. He shouldn't have slept so much, jetlag is going to be a problem, even more so without any of his usual medicines at hand — but it's too late to think about it now.

"You may call me Hanzo," he says instead, getting out of the chair to flex.

She lowers the volume even more. "Cheers. I'd return the favor, but honestly, everyone but my girlfriend calls me Tracer. Enjoy the sights, I have to chat with the ATC for a bit."

He's seen enough cities from this altitude that there is no novelty in it anymore, and the sprawl of civilization has nothing on the moonlit ocean and the starry sky anyway, so he opts to walk to the back and do a few exercises, instead, to get his blood flowing and his body ready for the possibility of an upcoming fight. By the time he feels a bit more prepared for whatever awaits him, they are nearly above Manhattan, and coming in so low that he can see the holographic flame flickering around Lady Liberty's torch.

The jet engines cut off, leaving a startling, although relative, silence in their wake. Hanzo watches in growing disbelief as they close in on one of the taller skyscrapers, decides to skip the pointless question — it's obvious that they're going for the brightly lit landing area right on top of it — and focuses instead on the glowing logo on the side of the building. He recognizes that logo, even though he cannot place it. It takes an infuriatingly long moment before his brain finally comes up with an answer: Song Industries, weapon manufacturers, leaders in the trade, especially when it comes to unmanned and remotely piloted military vehicles.

Why would an arms manufacturer who specializes in mechanized weaponry want to talk to an _archer_?

He draws an absolute blank on that one and gives up on theorizing entirely, since none of it makes any sense, and the plane is touching down anyway: he'll have the answers soon enough.

"Well, that's that." Tracer flips several switches on the instrument panel, stretches in her chair, groaning, and looks at him with a smile that looks tired, but genuine. "I have to say, this was a whole lot less awkward than I imagined. It was nice meeting you, Hanzo." Unexpectedly, she extends a hand, and he hesitates only out of pure surprise before shaking it. Her grip is firm and warm. "I hope you accept the offer you're going to get, because I still need to beat you at scrabble."

He stands up and bows. "I can make no promises not knowing the offer, but I am honored to have met you."

"Charmer," she grins and punches a final switch before getting up as well. In the back, he hears the mechanical whine of the the ramp opening. "Grab your stuff, I'll escort you."

Walking out onto the roof is viscerally unpleasant. Proper lighting of a landing area is one thing, but this is something else, a near-painful flood of light clearly meant to blind and disorient him, so he grits his teeth and tightens the grip on the strap of the bow case, reminding himself he had no reason to expect a friendly welcome. Tracer must share his feelings, because she shields her eyes with a forearm and mutters something unintelligible under her breath, and only lowers her hand when they're past the floodlights that have been pointed at the plane.

There are no less than six armed guards waiting for them, weapons not leveled at him but definitely at the ready, and another one that steps forward to exchange a few murmured words with Tracer.

"We'll have to confiscate your stuff for the time being," she says apologetically and lowers her voice, theatrically conspiratorial. "On account of the whole assassin thing."

Pointing out that he is perfectly able to kill without weapons would be counterproductive, and yet he is strangely tempted as he allows the unarmed guard to relieve him of the bow case, duffel and backpack. He even voluntarily relinquishes the knife in his pocket in a gesture of goodwill, but gets a pat-down anyway, detailed and professional but still pointless — even if they made him walk through a metal detector, they would not find the tiny ceramic blades in the soles of his shoes — and then he freezes, adrenaline spiking, because a voice suddenly rings out right behind him, even though he could have sworn he did not walk past anyone on his way off the plane.

"I'll take him from here," says the voice, a pleasantly rich baritone with a strong Southern accent. The man it belongs to must have stood directly behind the left floodlight to avoid his notice, and now he's behind Hanzo's back. Hanzo can't reposition, can't even turn to look at him, since sudden movements might not be well received by the guard performing the search; all he can do is scold himself for not paying enough attention, unclench his teeth and wait.

"Nah, I'll do it," Tracer replies briskly, with no sign of earlier tiredness. "We totally bonded on the way and I'm invested now."

"Did you now." It's delivered in a flat tone, every word dripping with scepticism. Tracer smirks, looking at the man behind him, and as soon as the guard is finally done with the search, Hanzo turns — slowly — to look as well.

The first things he notices are the prosthesis and the hat. It's America, and Americans' strange habits in regard to headwear are not something he's unfamiliar with, but still, a wide-brimmed stetson is not what he would have expected to see on the top of a skyscraper in the heart of the city, at night. Most likely it's another strategic move, because all that Hanzo can see of the man's face is a beard. The metal arm begins just above the elbow, bulky, gaudy and primitive. Can Song Industries not afford better quality prostheses for its people?

"We did indeed." There is a new tone in Tracer's voice — a challenge? "We had a nice chat about _moral relativism_ and all that."

The man transfers his weight to one leg and hooks his thumbs behind his belt. Plaid shirt tucked into jeans, gaudy golden belt buckle, a revolver holstered low on his hip: a stereotypical American. Add chaps and spurs and he would look like a cowboy. Hanzo would immediately disregard him as harmless, if it wasn't for the fact that the same man has already managed to surprise him, and as much as he wishes he could blame it on the tiredness and discomfort, he knows when he's been outplayed.

"Well then." The man doesn't bother introducing himself, just sweeps out the metal arm in a mocking gesture. "After you."

"Don't need a bodyguard either," says Tracer, and there is a definite tightness to her voice now.

"I ain't gonna wait on the roof 'til you're gone, if that's what you're aimin' for." The drawl is easy and without even a hint of aggression, yet something about it sets Hanzo's teeth on edge, and he emphatically does _not_ want this man behind his back again. He has no say in the matter, though, because Tracer sighs exaggeratedly, rolls her eyes and motions at him to follow.

He half expects to be blindfolded, but nobody makes any attempts to do so, and he ends up marching down a nondescript corridor arm in arm with Tracer, with their unasked-for escort walking quietly behind them. The elevator is already waiting, doors open, and despite entering last, the cowboy somehow manages to position himself at Hanzo's side and to the back, just far enough to be out of his field of view. Combined with the noticeable height advantage, it's an obvious tactic meant to intimidate and to throw him off, and annoyingly, even though he's aware of it, it still puts him on edge.

This man knows what he's doing, despite looking anything but, and as the elevator doors slide shut, Hanzo indulges briefly in a mental image of kicking his legs from under him and crushing his windpipe before he hits the floor.

* * *

No one tries to attack him, not even the Sneaky American hovering at his back. The lack of blindfolding does not bode well for Hanzo's chances of getting out of here alive, but he forcibly relaxes the muscles tensed in anticipation of an assault, anyway. It seems that they genuinely want something from him here, the mystery of Genji's involvement notwithstanding, and he is no stranger to negotiations, with or without the advantages of his other form.

The door closes behind him to the distant sound of Tracer's "good luck!", and he allows himself a moment to scan the environment.

Transmitting equipment in the middle of a smoothly polished wooden table. A carafe with water and a few glasses, and a slim black tablet next to it. Ergonomic, expensive-looking chairs. Three walls in a soothing shade of mint, fourth made of squares of frosted glass. Cameras: two visible. It's all neat, clean and utterly devoid of personality, perfect for a conference room because there is absolutely nothing to distract oneself with, no art, not even a potted plant to catch one's eye.

Speaking of eye-catching: the man standing next to the table with his arms folded is far removed from a high-ranking corporate exec he half-expected to meet. Tall, heavily muscled, posture straight, cropped hair, visible facial scarring, dark skin, piercing eyes. Khaki t-shirt, cargo pants. Military or ex-military. Chief of security, perhaps? Definitely not a white collar type.

The man watches him back, equally assessing. "You weren't in a hurry to call, were you."

No unnecessary pleasantries, then. "No," he replies calmly.

For some reason, that gets him a snort. "Fair. Glad you finally decided to take up the invitation. Name's Reyes. You don't have to introduce yourself." The man named Reyes reaches for the carafe, pours two glasses of water, slides one across the table in Hanzo's direction. "Sit down, then, and let's talk."

He sits and waits for Reyes to drink first, more out of habit than a conscious decision: if they wanted to harm him, they had countless other means to do it already.

There's a glint of amusement in the man's dark eyes that says he is aware of Hanzo's thought process. He drains the glass demonstratively and puts it back on the table with a decisive _thunk_. "What do you know about Overwatch?"

Hanzo is glad he's had years of practice in controlling his expression. "A pseudo-military group of individuals gifted with extraordinary abilities, dedicated to protecting the world from extraordinary threats. Delegalized and disbanded after repeated accusations of instability of some of its members, systemic abuse of power and excessive collateral damage."

Reyes nods, stone-faced, leans back in the chair and folds his arms again. "And your personal opinion?"

"There was a time when I considered Overwatch my enemy," he says evenly.

"Yes, the Demon of Hanamura. The problem that solved itself — well, for us, anyway."

The obviously deliberate choice of a pronoun does not escape Hanzo's notice, and he narrows his eyes. "Afterwards, I can't say I cared much about Overwatch or superheroes in general."

"Also fair." Reyes nods again, still expressionless. "Hypothetically, if such a group of talented individuals were to be assembled again, would you be interested in joining?"

Hanzo snorts. "You _know_ I was the Demon of the Shimada-gumi. I am not, have never been and will never be a _hero_."

"No one said anything about heroes. I'm looking for people who can do more than an average human, and are willing to use their skills for the good of humanity. And yes, I am aware of your current occupation," he raises a hand as if to stave off Hanzo's objections, "and I don't give a shit about what you do for a living right now. I care about what you could do in the future."

"You want a killer for hire in your merry band of superheroes?" He can _feel_ his emotions getting the better of him and the demon form itches at the edges his consciousness, demanding to be released, but this man could be riling him up for the sole purpose of dragging the shift out of him, and Hanzo refuses to give him the satisfaction. "If you know who I am and what I've done, what on earth makes you think I give a damn about the good of humanity?"

Reyes actually smirks at him, mildly condescending and entirely unfazed. "I know a good deal more than you think, Shimada. For example, I can't help but notice a pattern in the jobs you've accepted over the years, and truth be told, I find it hard to blame you for any of those. In fact, I have to applaud the amount of pure human filth that you dispatched while never making a single hit on an innocent person."

"No one who has a contract on their head is ever _innocent_ ," he sneers.

Reyes waves a hand, unperturbed. "Yeah, yeah, Tracer already informed me that you're fond of philosophical debates, but my point stands. You never take contracts on people who aren't festering sores on humanity's collective ass. And by the way, your latest job was a fucking work of art. Was that your idea, or your client's?"

Hanzo can recognize an obvious bluff even as far out of his comfort zone as he is right now. "Sorry. Professional secrecy," he says calmly. 

"I mean, of course, the timing and the microphone," Reyes adds with a knowing, shit-eating grin.

The only entity aware of his involvement in Sano Tatsuki's death should be his employer. Hanzo remains silent and impassive, doing his best to cover the sudden unease at the depth of information apparently at Reyes's disposal.

"Anyway." Reyes leans forward, elbows on the table. "Take my offer, and you'll be doing pretty much what you've already been doing, just safer, with less hassle, in better company and for an arguably better cause. And, last but not least, with job benefits."

"What exactly _is_ the offer," Hanzo bites out, "and who are you to make it? Because I remember the leader of Overwatch, and it definitely wasn't you."

"About that." The man nods and reaches out to tap a button on the transmission set. "You can come in, Jack."

Fifteen seconds later, the door opens, and Hanzo instantly recognizes the man that walks through. The iconic blonde hair has begun greying at the temples and there are more than a few lines on the handsome, blue-eyed face, but it's definitely him, Hanzo has seen him on TV often enough to instantly recognize his features.

"Good evening," says Jack Morrison, the former leader and poster boy of Overwatch, and pulls out a chair next to Reyes. "Do I have to do the good cop routine or are we all set?"

"I've been asked for credentials." Reyes is evidently enjoying himself now. "Mind introducing me, Jack?"

Morrison turns towards him, absolutely serious. "I'm glad you decided to give us a chance, Mr. Shimada. I'm Jack Morrison, previously the commander of Overwatch, and this is Gabriel Reyes, previously and currently my second-in-command."

The next question is obvious. "And what are you in command of now?"

Both men exchange glances that look moderately approving, before Morrison leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head. "Officially? The security division of Song Industries. Unofficially? I expect Reyes has given you enough information to put two and two together."

"You're rebuilding Overwatch," he says slowly, giving up on concealing the disbelief. "And for some unknowable reason you decided that you needed a killer on your roster."

"You wouldn't be the first killer on the roster," Reyes smirks at him again, "and neither would you be the first Shimada."

 _Genji_ is a member of Overwatch? Genji the eternal hedonist, Genji the individualist, Genji who never gave a fuck about anyone else, Genji cut by the sword and devoured by the dragons and left for _dead_ — in _Overwatch_?

Morrison eventually takes mercy on him, breaking the heavy silence. "Your brother had been a valued member for some time before we were forced to disband, and now that he's returned after resolving some… personal difficulties, he recommended that we recruit you, as well."

Hanzo discovers that his throat has closed up and refuses to work, and he tightens his hands on the arms of the chair and fights the shift that threatens to overtake him against his will.

"He's had many good things to say about you," Morrison continues without any indication of noticing his struggle. "We've been given a unique opportunity to rebuild the team, but there's only a few of us so far, and we're in constant need of reliable, skilled individuals, especially if they come with a personal recommendation from one of the members."

Reyes nods and takes over smoothly. "The offer is simple: you join us. Not officially, of course, because Overwatch is long dead—"

"Why would I?" Hanzo interrupts after getting his throat to work with a long gulp of water and several calming breaths. "I already told you I have no interest in heroics. Why would I want to join your— _crusade_ to help people who don't want you to help them? What do I gain out of it?"

"I'm so glad you asked," says Reyes sarcastically. "The contract you sign is with the security subdivision of Song Industries. It's a genuine contract, by the way. You get regular wages, free accommodations and meals, insurance, paid holidays, hell, even dental. On paper you report to me, and in reality, you're part of a team of equals — well, some of us might be a little more equal than others, but the spirit is there. We give it a month or three, and if you don't gel, we thank you and send you wherever you want to go. If you do — welcome to the team." He leans back again and regards Hanzo through half-lidded eyes. "Of course, if you'd rather go back to risking your life on a regular basis to kill human shitstains for other human shitstains, then we won't hold you. You spend the night, wait for Tracer to rest after that little trip around the world, and she ships you right back home."

Hanzo stares back at him, unable to come up with an answer and heart inexplicably racing.

"This is the part where I should do the good cop thing," Morrison adds with a half-smile, "but I think Reyes covered everything that needed to be said. You already have a second recommendation, by the way. Tracer's made it very clear that she thinks you should be given an offer. Genji may be biased, but she has no reason to, so clearly you've made an impression."

Tomorrow, he could be back in Nagoya, or perhaps somewhere further west, Fukuoka or maybe even Korea, to throw the assassins off his trail for a while. He could rent another small flat with basic furnishings or maybe none at all, maybe he would just buy a simple futon and a good mattress and something to store his clothes, to avoid getting attached and reduce the losses when he's inevitably forced to abandon it. He could message one of his contacts and indicate potential interest in another job, then browse through the dossiers they send him and make another judgment on who is reprehensible enough to unquestionably deserve to die.

"I will need to retrieve some of my possessions from Japan," he says hoarsely, "and it will take me some time to deal with the immigration process."

Reyes waves his concerns away with a smirk. "We'll sort out the immigration for you, legal entry and visas and everything. Through less than legal, but tried and efficient means. As for your stuff, we can pick it up the next time we're in the general area, but if you want to get it shipped earlier, go for it. We don't exactly work on the clock here, anyway."

"And I will organize my own accommodations if there is no option of a private room."

Morrison's face is professionally devoid of any signs of satisfaction, at least. "You'll get a private room with a bathroom. Kitchen's shared, but we have our own decent catering — although," he cuts a look at Reyes, "I've been told that opinions vary on that one. There's a gym, a pool, a gun range, and probably a bunch of other things that I don't know about yet, courtesy of our sponsor. Of course you're free to look for your own place to live, but you'll change your mind when you see the property prices in Manhattan."

Hanzo's mind latches onto the last unanswered question. "Who is the sponsor?"

"Song Industries, of course." Morrison makes a wide gesture with both hands. "Namely, Hana Song, the new CEO. You'll meet her tomorrow if you sign the contract. She's a very… interesting person."

Reyes stands up, walks over to Hanzo and places the black tablet in front of him. "Here's your contract. It's the usual boring bullshit and we told you all the important bits, but if you want to read it, then by all means, knock yourself out. Morrison can answer any questions. I'll go get your room sorted."

He reads the whole thing, twenty-six pages of text, tightly packed and just as boring as he's been warned, fills in the email address to get a copy, and after a minute of hesitation presses a thumb to the reader.

"Congratulations, Mr. Shimada." Morrison stands up and extends a hand with a smile. "Welcome to Overwatch."

Art by [@steel_peach](https://twitter.com/steel_peach)!


	2. Shift

Reyes comes back a few minutes after both parties have added their fingerprints to the contract, and the silence has started progressing well into awkward. He waves Morrison off like he's the one in charge and tosses Hanzo a nondescript, thin black bracelet. "A pass that should work for most places. Some are going to be off limits for now. It will get you through the bottom and top entrances — don't give me that look, I know you ninjas can climb — and floors sixty to sixty-four. That's our part. The rest is mostly Song R&D and random corporate shit you don't need to see anyway."

Hanzo puts it on, experimentally flexing his hand. The bracelet is slightly elastic, and has just enough give to pass over his palm and fit comfortably around his wrist without impeding its movement range.

"I'd give you the full tour, but the timing's shit, since everyone's asleep or soon going to be." Reyes walks towards the door and motions at Hanzo to follow. "How about this: I show you the common area for now, and tomorrow morning you hang around there and someone'll pick you up for a proper tour."

Hanzo glances at the clock on his phone: it's close to eleven P.M. already. "By what definition of 'morning'?"

Reyes shrugs. "After you wake up. I get up early, because old habits die hard. Some rarely show up before noon. It's like a luxury resort around here, only every now and then someone or something tries really hard to kill you. Come on, I'm an old man and I need my sleep."

Reyes can't be older than mid-forties. Hanzo huffs and follows him through the open door, past the elevators and around the corner, and stops in surprise at the sight of a vast open area below.

"So these are our floors." Reyes makes a sweeping gesture encompassing four floors' worth of space, all metal and glass and dimmed milky lights. "We're at the top, on sixty-fourth, above us there's only maintenance, the hangar and the landing. That fancy round place you can see at the bottom is the briefing room. Jokes about the glass ceiling will get you a swift kick in the ass from the CEO. The living room slash social area is right across from us, on that balcony on sixty-third. You can take the shortcut stairs or if you're coming from the elevator, go past the kitchen and the mess. By the way, if these," he makes another sweeping motion, indicating the few glass staircases snaking around the edges, "remind you of fucking Escher, then welcome to the club. I don't know who designed this and what they had been smoking."

Hanzo hums noncommittally, looking around, trying to construct a mental map of the labyrinthine structure before the details flee his mind.

"The gym and the pool are below us on the sixty-second. Sixty-first is where most of the living quarters are. Walls are decently soundproofed, so if you want to get drunk in the common area and start singing, you won't wake anyone up."

Hanzo smirks. "Based on personal experience?"

"Based on working with Germans with the lung capacity of an elephant. Anyway, that's all you need for now. Your room is on the sixty-first, with your nametag on the door. From here back to the elevator, then right."

After Reyes leaves, Hanzo leans against the railing and looks around. Alone and wide awake in the secret base of an illegal organization he just joined, he has all the time in the world to consider his options. The common area looks tempting with its cozy lighting and multiple sofas and, crucially, a bottle-filled bar in the back; getting down there, stretching out on one of these comfortable-looking sofas and appropriating a bottle of something drinkable would be one way to put himself to sleep. He almost goes for it, but there's a foul taste in his mouth and an itch across his skin that remind him he is way overdue for personal hygiene and proper hydration, so he decides to visit the room first to see what the 'luxury resort' has to offer.

He runs into the Sneaky American right after exiting the elevator. Without the hat to obscure his features and face to face, the man is actually ruggedly handsome, in a way that matches the vaguely Wild West stylistic of his clothing, and that's all that Hanzo manages to notice before he tenses up instinctively at the suddenly aggressive body language. 

"So, you're the bad Shimada," says the American, stopping right in the middle of the corridor in a challenging stance, legs wide, thumbs tucked behind his belt.

It's been a long day, and the bitterly incredulous laugh gets out before he can contain it. "If Genji is who you call the _good_ Shimada, then either your standards are very low, or he must have changed more than I can imagine." The corridor is wide, Hanzo could still walk past if he wanted to, but he will not leave a potential attacker behind his back.

"I don't hold yakuza to high standards. Not murderin' family is good enough in my book."

"It may surprise you," says Hanzo evenly, "that Genji killed a lot more of our family than I did."

The man scoffs. "Well deserved."

"Who are you to judge who deserves to die?"

"Oh, so you're tellin' me that Genji _deserved_ to be cut down by his own brother?"

Rationally, he knows he's being goaded, but he's tired, and something in that self-righteous ass and his condescension cuts right through his control. "The brother he hated and actively sabotaged at every opportunity, you mean," he says icily.

"Yeah, y'know, I don't think dismemberment is considered an appropriate reaction to a disagreement with a sibling."

"I did not—" Hanzo swallows, forces himself to remain calm. "He refused his duty. He betrayed his family. We fought an honorable fight and he lost, and it brought me no joy to see him die!"

The man's face twists in a sneer. "Gotta be a special kind of fucked-up to think killin' family can be honorable."

"I'm not surprised that you have no concept of duty or honor," he spits.

"The kinda duty that makes me a kinslayer? Yeah, I reckon I don't."

There's a tremor starting in his hands, and a tell-tale itch in his gums. He's had enough of this. "If you have a problem with my presence, you should have taken it up with Morrison or Reyes, or Genji himself, since it was his idea in the first place."

"Oh, I would've, had I known before today that Genji lost his goddamn mind." 

"Then I suggest that you do it tomorrow," he growls, "and until then, either attack or _get out of my way_."

Hopefully the soundproofing is good enough to mute the sounds of a fight, if he has to resort to violence to be left alone. Hanzo raises his chin high and marches right past the aggressor, tensed and ready to deflect a blow — but it doesn't come; the man steps out of his way at the last moment and wordlessly stalks towards the elevators.

Hanzo waits for the elevator door to close before exhaling shakily and turning to search for his room.

* * *

They bothered to print his name in both Latin script and kanji, and they even got it right in both cases. The door unlocks with a satisfyingly meaty click; a brief inspection reveals it's thick and properly sealed, nothing like a cheap hotel door. No drafts through this one. Hanzo has a suspicion he could talk right next to it and not be heard on the other side.

The room is impersonal, but it doesn't exude a hotel vibe either, possibly because it doesn't try for fake warmth: no fluffed up pillows, no deep carpets or flowery curtains, just the same metal and glass he's seen throughout the building so far. It could almost be described as spartan if it wasn't for the walls in the same relaxing shade of mint as the conference room, and if all of this wasn't too obviously modern and expensive to classify as such. Someone brought his bags here and arranged them a row in front of the bed and, surprisingly, he even finds his knife on the desk, next to a slim display panel. Hanzo walks over to the bed, a high futon with a single pillow and a stack of perfectly folded sheets, and sits experimentally: memory foam. Luxury resort, indeed. If only he felt like sleeping.

He disrupts the clinical neatness of the place by throwing the jacket across the chair and unceremoniously dumping the contents of his duffel onto the bed, and armed with the emergency toiletries he goes to scout out the bathroom. The place doesn't feel safe enough yet for a soak in the bathtub, not after the encounter in the corridor, but even showering off the sweat and dust and the lingering smell of the plane does wonders for his morale, and he emerges from the steamed up enclosure feeling — maybe not on top of the world, not quite, but definitely more inclined to fight whoever stands in his way.

A glance at the full-height mirror surprises him yet again. He stops, turns, walks closer to inspect his reflection, slowly raises his hand and runs it along the trimmed side of his head. It looks even more strange now, with the damp remains of his hair falling over one side and the piercings glistening in the bright light; he should probably take them out, but without access to a biotic emitter he would have no means to get rid of the holes.

He turns his head slightly, considering. They don't actually look bad, and if nothing else, Genji will definitely draw a great amount of enjoyment out of this metamorphosis. Perhaps he should keep them for a little while.

He had forgotten to include a comb in his bag of necessities, so he does what he can with his fingers and walks out of the bathroom trying to wrangle the hair back into a bun. The animated display on the desk draws his attention through an unexpected movement; all it shows is a stylized letter 'A', and just in case it launches a bidirectional video feed, he wraps the towel around his waist before reaching out to touch it.

The display reacts with a water-like ripple effect around his finger. "Good evening, Mr. Shimada." He can't immediately locate the source of the sound, but the voice he recognizes instantly: he talked to this person — entity? — two days ago. "I'm Athena. I'm glad your journey went well. How can I help you?"

He had assumed that the person on the other side of the phone call had been using a voice changer, but there would be no point of using one now. An expert system…? "I would like to know who I'm talking to," he says, and after a moment of consideration tacks on a "please".

"I am an artificial intelligence built by Dr. Winston, currently affiliated with Overwatch, and among other tasks, I'm responsible for the security of this building and its inhabitants."

Hanzo frowns and folds his arms. "Artificial intelligences are illegal."

"So is Overwatch," says the voice with a sudden note of dry amusement. "Also, that was _very_ rude."

"I… apologize." It's certainly a new experience to be lectured about manners by a computer — and thinking of her as a computer is probably even more rude. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Apology accepted," she says smoothly. "Can I do anything for you?"

He's still unable to pinpoint the location of the speakers, and being talked to from thin air turns out to be really unnerving. "Are you monitoring this room?"

"No." Athena manages to sound offended in a single syllable. "Overwatch is very strict in observing the privacy of its members. The terminal you have activated is restricted to voice only unless a video channel is specifically requested. I _do_ , however, monitor the corridors leading to the private quarters." A meaningful pause. "Would you like me to file a report concerning the incident with Agent McCree?"

"It wasn't much of an incident," he shrugs and it's true: after the long, luxurious shower, he finds it hard to care that some American hick has a problem with his presence. "As long as his hostility remains verbal, he will not be an issue. I would prefer some information on this McCree, instead."

"Aggression against team members, even if only verbal, is against the code of conduct and the spirit of Overwatch," she says primly, "but as you wish. Jesse McCree, codename Deadeye, is one of the fourteen currently active agents on the roster, and one of the original members of the organization. You have received access to a full member list as part of your introduction pack, which I recommend you familiarize yourself with at the earliest opportunity."

Hanzo nods, considering. "I may need to leave the building in order to do some shopping. Am I free to do so?"

"You are absolutely free to move in and out of the building, Mr. Shimada," she assures him and just as he starts wondering how to politely end a conversation with a disembodied person, she bids him goodnight. The animated 'A' on the display shrinks to a single icon in a corner, and the rest turns out to be a standard Internet-connected terminal, which he immediately uses to locate the nearest convenience store. 

He only goes out to check if at least one of his payment cards works and to buy something to eat and drink, but the fact of suddenly having been transported to nearly the other side of the world doesn't really sink in until he walks out the building and finds himself in an alien-looking street, everything from street lamps to parking meters different and strange and _wrong_ , and from there his legs just take over and carry him toward Times Square.

The amounts of people roaming the city at night surprise him until he realizes that he has wandered onto Broadway. Like any other person with a price on their head he is not a fan of crowded areas, and he catches himself scanning people around him for familiar signs of violent intentions until he realizes that assassins had absolutely no chance to find him here yet. Even if they somehow tapped his phone, they wouldn't have known the coordinates. Even if they managed to follow him to the meeting spot, they wouldn't have been able to catch up with Tracer's plane. He is perfectly safe at least until tomorrow, right in the middle of this neon-lit writhing mass of tourists, peddlers and pickpockets. The thought is rather amusing.

He gorges himself on exquisitely disgusting American fast food right in the heart of the city, walks back to the tower and its very pedestrian corporate building entrance, takes the elevator, which examines him thoroughly with a much less pedestrian biometric scanner — he wonders if it's an algorithm, or if Athena herself is looking — and decides to see what his tablet's security software thinks about the building's network. The program runs dutifully through a full scanning suite and finds nothing, which Hanzo suspects is par the course where an AI is involved. She could still be examining all traffic, but even an AI would need a way to bend spacetime to break quantum encryption protocols which Hanzo zealously uses.

Instead of taking the elevator again, he walks up the Escher-esque stairs to the common area, shamelessly steals a bottle of white wine from the well-stocked bar at the wall in the back, returns to his room, stretches out on the soft cloud of foam and accepts the Song Industries welcome package. The fake-job related paperwork puts him to sleep at least as much as the wine.

* * *

He doesn't sleep for long, merely a few hours, restless despite the incredibly comfortable bed, and he drags himself out of it with a certain regret when it becomes obvious that there is absolutely no chance of falling asleep again. At least long experience has taught him to include a shaver in the package of emergency toiletries, and he can shave and look like a functional human being, even if he doesn't quite feel like one.

The open space looks very different in the light of day. Sun shines freely through the glass walls and reflects off all the glass and metal surfaces, producing more than one little rainbow where the glass hits an angle, and the pleasant view puts him in a slightly better mood: as decent as his Nagoya flat had been, this is a definite upgrade from the suburban aesthetic.

Reyes's words about a "luxury resort" come back to him when he finds the kitchen and an actual hot-and-cold buffet laid out on the table against the wall. It feels like a hotel restaurant until he peeks curiously into the dishes, at which point it becomes apparent that the food selection is way too customized to resemble generic hotel offerings. There are some American grease-dripping staples, there's the so-called "continental" choice of pastries, cheeses, meats and fruits, but there's also an actual rice boiler, a dish of kimchi and several other _banchan_ , some strange looking sausages, there are even products he doesn't recognize at all, and between all that he manages to compose a meal that doesn't make his stomach churn after last night's terrible decisions.

It's almost eight in the morning now, and Reyes should be awake if his words last night can be believed, so Hanzo decides to carry his plate and a cup of coffee to the common area instead of sitting alone in the large, empty room. He's been trying to avoid thinking about it, but he can't help but wonder if Genji is the one Reyes alluded to when talking about people who don't show up before noon; it was certainly the case years ago, when they still saw each other outside formal gatherings.

When he emerges onto the balcony, Reyes isn't there, and to his relief, neither is Genji. The only person present is a short, slim girl in an oversized pink t-shirt and ripped jeans, sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas and chewing what smells like a Korean egg toast without taking her eyes off a tablet she's reading. Hanzo sits across her with a polite "good morning", and she drops the tablet in her lap and gives him a sharp look, disconcertingly focused for this early hour.

" _Annyeong_. You're the new one. Everything good so far?"

"No complaints." There is little point of bringing up the late night dispute with the American, especially when it feels even less significant in the light of a new day.

"Good. I'm Hana. Codename's D.Va, you can call me either."

The understanding dawns. "Hana Song."

"Yep." She pops the 'p', picks up her plate and takes another bite. "I'm your boss," she says, mouth full, and points at him with the plate, "so if you have any problems with it, better speak up now."

His genuinely baffled expression seems to serve as a good enough answer, because D.Va nods, satisfied, swallows and continues. "Cool. You got any nicknames, or can I call you by name?"

Hanzo huffs slightly. "The only nickname I know of is definitely not one I want to be addressed with. Hanzo is fine."

"Yeah, Reyes asked me to okay your file yesterday. TL,DR, but Demon, huh. You transform?"

Straight to the point, then. Hanzo side-eyes her with the chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "I do. But I'd like to finish my breakfast before we get to demonstrations."

"Fair enough. I have to read through twenty pages of shitty reports anyway," she eyes the tablet with an expression of disgust, "and Athena refuses to give me a summary."

"You have to get used to the responsibilities of a CEO," Athena says admonishingly from somewhere above them.

D.Va snorts and takes another bite of the toast. "What I _have_ to do is fire every exec who can't fit a report into a single page."

"I do hope you're planning to include vegetables in your meals at some point, Hana," comes another female voice from the direction of the kitchen.

"Cabbage is a vegetable!" D.Va yells immediately without turning around. "So is onion!"

The muttered response is not in English — it's some dialect of German, if Hanzo's ear doesn't lie — and the newcomer sits in an armchair to his right with a bowl of fruit-topped yoghurt in her hands. "Good morning. I'm Angela and I keep all these special cases alive and moderately healthy. Despite their best efforts."

"You're Mercy," he realizes out loud. Another one of Overwatch's poster figures back in the day, winged and angelic, featured in nearly every newscast, as recognizable as Tracer herself. She looks a lot smaller and more mundane without her haloed armor, and her cool expression is far removed from the beatific, serene smile she usually wore in the photographs.

"I am," she says, sitting straighter and regarding him with an expression that reminds him of a displeased teacher. "I am also Genji's doctor, and in the name of building relationships based on honesty, I want you to know that I was initially against recruiting you."

It's a fair statement. Her eyes are as sharp as Hana's, assessing, but not openly hostile, and Hanzo simply nods in response. "I understand."

Mercy's shoulders relax a bit. "Genji insisted that you would make a valuable addition, and I've learned to trust his judgment. Please don't disappoint him."

"I don't think you should trust Genji's judgment," he mutters, because Genji has always been a shitty judge of character, the way he surrounded himself with greedy sycophants, "but I hope I can prove myself valuable enough without it."

"Shame he's in Nepal," D.Va comments, not looking up from her tablet. "He was super excited about recruiting you, and seriously pissed off when you ignored the invitation."

So that's where Genji is. Hanzo shrugs, expression carefully impassive. "If he issued the invitation in a more sensible way, I might have not put it off for so long. I don't find smoke bombs and cryptic messages greatly compelling."

"Fair point. He does love to show off." She suddenly tosses the tablet onto the seat next to her. "I'm done with these for now — _don't start_ , Athena, or I'll demote you to personal assistant — so, speaking of showing off, want to show us that scary demon form of yours?"

Not particularly, he doesn't, but he supposes it's necessary for his new colleagues to learn of his capabilities earlier than in the middle of a fight. Regretfully, he puts down his coffee and lets the shift happen, focusing on muting the response from his senses, everything too bright and loud and visceral, until the adjustment finally comes, the brief sensory overload passes, and he can reach for the coffee again, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering odor of the egg toast.

D.Va whistles when he opens his eyes. "Yeah, I can see where the nickname came from," she says, but she's perfectly calm and nothing in her body language shows any signs of fear whatsoever. "Are these tattoos or markings?"

"Markings. They form symmetric patterns that spread across my body."

"Need to catch you freshly out of the shower at some point, then," she grins, still with absolutely no respect for his intimidating visage, but before he can point out that in this form he can also rip human limbs off with little effort, he hears someone coming in from the kitchen and instinctively turns.

McCree, a steaming mug in one hand and a bagel in the other, freezes at his sight, and Hanzo has a front row seat to a classic fight-or-flight response. The American's pupils widen, his mouth falls open nearly comically, and Hanzo can't hear his heart rate from this distance, not even with sharpened senses, but it has to be increased as well. Excellent. Let the man fear him. Maybe he'll be less eager to pick fights from now on.

Eventually, McCree's mouth snaps shut and he resumes walking, but the rate of blinking still betrays him. "Mornin'," he says. "We makin' introductions?"

Hanzo smiles politely, making sure to show off the fangs, but D.Va is faster to respond. "Yep. Sorry, cowboy, you just lost your spot as the most handsome man on the roster."

McCree snorts at that. "I ain't here to look pretty."

"Shame, at least I'd know what I'm paying you for," she shoots back without missing a beat. 

"So, apart from the startling appearance, what does this mean for you?" Mercy is just as unfazed as D.Va was, and she's looking at him with clinical, detached interest. "I assume improved hearing? You noticed Jesse coming before he even showed in the door."

"Hearing, sight, all senses. Speed and strength, too."

She steeples her fingers under her chin; it makes her look not unlike a scheming evil scientist. "Is it difficult to maintain?"

"Only if I keep it partial. The full shift feels… natural. The Shimada tradition claims that the demon form _is_ our natural form."

"So this is not a full shift?" interjects D.Va. "Is the full one actually scary? 'Cause I don't really see what the fuss is about."

Hanzo smiles at her with too-long teeth. "Not quite. The full shift involves a lot more fangs and claws. It makes it difficult to hold a conversation and near impossible to use my bow, and I'm _not_ demonstrating it right now because I'd like to be able to finish my coffee."

McCree makes a weird sound from where he's sitting. Hanzo glances at him, but sees only the cactus-patterned mug the cowboy's hiding behind before D.Va commands his attention again. "Okay. So you're faster, stronger and you see and hear better, and you're not even all that ugly. What's the flip side? There's always a flip side."

Hanzo has been dreading the question, but ironically, the shift actually makes it easier to talk about its effects. "It makes me more rational. Or rather, it gradually narrows my emotional range." She tilts her head, considering, and motions at him to continue; it takes him a moment to come up with an appropriate description. "The deeper the change and the longer I maintain it, the less influenced by emotions and less capable of empathy I get. Some don't even consider it a downside. Like my former clan."

D.Va leans forward with a glint in her eye. "That's… actually still kinda cool. So, what, you turn into an evil robot? How long does it take?"

He considers arguing over the use of the word 'robot', and decides he's not had enough coffee. "It depends on the emotion and how strong it is. Anxiety passes near immediately. It takes a few days of not shifting back to forget about fear or anger."

"I still don't really see how that's a downside," she huffs, leaning back. "I _so_ could use that ability the next time I have to sit through a stakeholder meeting."

Hanzo looks at the ray of sunlight refracting in the edge of the glass coffee table and thinks about bluntly explaining just what the the downside is, but… no. Not yet. Not now. She's clever, she'll figure it out soon anyway. McCree is staring at him openly now, and he blinks and averts his eyes when Hanzo stares impassively back: looks like he, at least, added two and two together.

"Interesting," Mercy says slowly. "I don't suppose you would be up for some tests later? We have a colleague with quite the opposite problem, and I wonder—"

D.Va rolls her eyes. "He just joined, Mercy, try not to scare him away with needles just yet."

"I'm not saying right now! But if we could figure out the mechanism of the effect, then we could both engineer a serum to mitigate it, if needed, _and_ potentially help Winston—"

"I'll be happy to help," he interrupts. "As long as the tests are non-detrimental to myself."

She smiles at that, finally looking somewhat like her angelic poster self. "Fantastic! Come to the infirmary when you have a moment. I'll need you to sign some forms anyway, as a new patient, and I'll give you something for the jetlag, as well."

"I will." The temptation to stay shifted has grown easier to overcome through the years, but he still has to focus and put conscious effort into it before everything is warm and muted again, and the guilt comes flooding back. He didn't mention Genji in the end, and McCree didn't ask. He can't help but wonder why.

"Well, that was entertaining," says D.Va briskly. "How come Genji doesn't do this?"

It's too soon after the change, and he finds that he can't answer without risking that his voice wavers — stupid fucking emotional whiplash — so he swallows and tries to compose himself, just long enough for the silence to become unbearable.

"Uhhh," she says awkwardly, "okay, bad question. Let's change the—"

"He can," he answers, and it comes out only a little bit strangled. "He just chooses not to. He… greatly dislikes the side effects."

"Yeah, no wonder," McCree mutters under his breath.

It nearly makes him want to shift right back, if only to stop himself from getting angry again, but he's saved from the temptation by the shrill sound of a chiptune. D.Va pulls a phone out from her pocket — it's quite similar to the throwaway one he used to keep in his duffel, only a lot more expensive and with a rabbit charm rather than a pachimari — and puts it to her ear, frowning, the conversation forgotten. They all turn to look at her when she swears for the first time, opening her tablet with the other hand: whoever she is talking to, it's pretty clear they don't have anything good to say.

"Well, fuck," she says eventually, pocketing the phone and jumping to her feet. "Reyes called, we have an emergency. Talon's screwing with my facilities _again_. Everyone, briefing room ASAP. You too," she adds before Hanzo can ask and walks away before he can react.

They all stand up at the same time, and McCree drawls "after you", extending a hand in an exact copy of the gesture yesterday at the landing. Hanzo grits his teeth against the urge to put a fist in his face and rushes after Mercy with an obnoxious shadow at his heels.

* * *

"This is the Song Industries' urban warfare test center." D.Va rotates the holographic image and closes in on a large group of buildings. "They've been running tests on my late father's latest pet project when they got attacked. We didn't get much in the way of details before they got cut off, but sounds like Talon. We need to get there fast and kick them out. There's not a lot of personnel on site and they don't have much to defend themselves with. Oh, and the project in question is a prototype of a walking tank."

"That tank's got no live ammo, I hope," Reyes mutters darkly.

"No, but it still can wreck the place and kill people, and I definitely don't want it to end up in Talon's hands." With a sweep of her hand, D.Va switches to a 3D image of a disturbingly insect-like, eight-legged vehicle. "The two forwardmost arms can be used to interact with objects, by which I mean mostly punching through things, and I want to stress that it's much faster than it looks."

"What the hell is Talon going to do with a spider tank? Hotwire it and joyride across the state?" 

D.Va shrugs. "I have no idea. Maybe they like the shiny, or maybe don't approve of the new CEO and want to send a message? Either way, we need to get moving before they figure out how to override the controls. Morrison, who's available at the moment?"

"With your mech still in pieces and everyone in goddamn Nepal? Me, Reyes, McCree and Mercy. Not counting Tracer because I assume she'll be stuck piloting."

"What about him?" D.Va juts her chin in Hanzo's direction. "Trial run?"

All heads turn into his direction, and he shrugs. "I'm ready if you need me."

McCree scoffs loudly from his spot to the side. "And what's he gonna do, shoot a tank with bow and arrows?"

"Pretty sure your bullets will be as useful against a tank as his arrows, buddy," says D.Va coolly. "And no shooting at the tank, anyway, Lindholm will have a fit if you so much as dent his precious baby. The primary target are Talon's ground forces, if it's even Talon at all. Damage the prototype only as a last resort."

"Fantastic." Morrison pushes away from the table. "We better get there before they get to the tank, then. Everyone, grab your gear and meet on the landing pad ASAP."

At least this time McCree doesn't bother shadowing Hanzo's steps: he's the first out of the door, and Hanzo can glare freely at his back.

* * *

Tracer is already on the landing pad, hair in wild disarray, and at his sight she stuffs at least half a sandwich at once into her mouth and waves. "No scrabble this time, I'm afraid," she says, spitting crumbs, and after a frankly terrifying swallow she just — disappears in a flash of blue light. 

With some difficulty, Hanzo closes his mouth and swallows hard, too, watching her appear in the distance, at the front of the plane, talk for a moment with a harried-looking technician, and in another flash reappear right in front of him. She double-takes at the sight of his expression and laughs. "Right! Forgot I never told you about the accelerator. That's basically it, then. The power of science! Get on board, strap in, we're leaving in a hurry, I wasn't even allowed to get a bloody morning coffee, see if I don't crash this plane now—"

The sound of hurried, heavy footsteps interrupts both her complaining and all the incredulous questions forming in Hanzo's head, and she does it again: a streak of blue light and she's instantly on the plane, another and she's out of sight. Morrison jogs past him, up the ramp, and turns around, eyebrows raised. "You're going like this?"

Morrison is wearing a leather jacket instead of the iconic blue coat, he's got what looks like a ballistic chestplate underneath and he's holding one of the biggest rifles Hanzo has seen in his life, and Hanzo has to admit that in comparison he might be looking a bit underdressed. "I don't have any other options at the moment," he shrugs. "I was forced to abandon most of my possessions shortly before making contact." 

Morrison frowns and takes a step towards him. "There's still time to get you a kevlar vest at least."

Hanzo shakes his head. "I would be useless in one. My movements must not be restricted."

"Genji's gonna be pissed if his brother gets killed on the first day," drawls McCree from somewhere behind him, and Morrison's frown deepens. 

"I don't plan to charge headlong into a tank, if that is your concern," Hanzo assures them coolly and walks up the ramp, past Morrison and towards the equipment rack. "If it's a combat training facility, then it should have plenty of high vantage points I can take. I don't need armor if I'm not going to be fired at."

"I wouldn't assume Talon's dumb enough not to notice when someone's shootin' at them, even if it's from a goddamn bow," mutters McCree, taking one of the seats.

In his entirely civilian clothing Hanzo does stick out like a sore thumb, and he doesn't even have his climbing boots anymore to look a little less like a lost tourist. Not getting shot is going to be a challenge, for once, and a challenge is _exactly_ what he needs; despite McCree's feeble attempts to discredit his skills, despite the jetlag and the echoes of a headache, he's genuinely excited to have a chance to prove his worth in this fight, especially if he manages to make a fool of the American in the process. He's not above showing off if his skills are being questioned.

The bow case secured in the rack, he drops into the seat next to it, opposite McCree, and looks right into his eyes with a faint smirk. "I appreciate your heartfelt concern, but there is no reason to worry. I am quite capable of stealth."

McCree shrugs and pulls a seatbelt over his own chestplate. "It's your funeral."

"You should talk to Torbjörn after we come back." Morrison sits next to him and hands him a small packet. Hanzo rips it open and inspects the contents. "Earpiece and a throat mic, put them on. Keeping everyone decently armored is one of Torb's hobbies, he'll fix you up with something that won't hinder your mobility. For now, I'm going to trust that you know what you're doing."

" _Thank_ you," Hanzo mutters wryly, adjusting the microphone's band under his collar. "Do we have a plan?"

Reyes and Mercy appear in the entrance, and the ramp starts closing before they even step off it; through the whine of the mechanism and the intensifying whir of turbines, Morrison's voice rings clear directly in Hanzo's ear. "We're going to approach from an angle that should let us land without taking fire, and assess the situation before we proceed. What's your range with that bow?"

"About two hundred meters effective," he says quietly enough that he can't hear his own voice through the noise, and Morrison nods and gives him a thumbs-up.

"You'll be the scout, then. There are at least two tall buildings near our point of entry. If Talon's already in position, we either take them out directly from the sky or Reaper goes with you and you smoke them out."

"…Reaper?"

"That'd be me." Reyes wraps the laryngophone around his neck and flashes his teeth in a smile that makes his scarred, hardass-sergeant face look disturbingly cheerful. "We didn't have time for proper introductions, so I'll just give you a quick demo. Hold on to your butt, ninja boy."

He manages not to recoil, but his first instinct is to hold his breath so that he doesn't accidentally inhale the black, _oily_ mist that was Reyes a second ago. It spreads and tightens in an almost obscene, slow pulse, reaches towards him with a threatening tendril, then pulls back; Reyes solidifies just as suddenly as he burst into vapor, still grinning, and drops into his seat. "Nice. People normally at least flinch."

"Don't waste energy on showing off," mutters Morrison. It sounds so strangely fond that Hanzo glances at him, surprised, but the smile he's sure he just heard is already gone. "So, barring that we get attacked straight away, Reaper goes with you, you scout out the area, don't engage if you don't need to, and we plan from there."

"And please, do try not to get shot," Mercy adds, raising her eyes briefly from the diagram-covered tablet she's been reading. "I understand that we didn't have time to get you outfitted, but even I might not be able to fix you if you get hit with a rifle bullet while wearing a t-shirt."

It takes some effort to withhold a scathing comment about the level of confidence they all clearly have in his abilities, but he manages to convert it into a noncommittal grunt.

"The facility's not far from here," says Tracer over the comms, "so don't get too cozy. We should be there in fifteen minutes. I'll give you a heads up before we get in range."

Overwatch's wireless network conveniently extends to the plane. Hanzo barely has time to scroll through the news and catch up on email before Tracer, unfalteringly cheerful despite the lamented lack of coffee, announces an ETA of five minutes. He unbuckles from his seat, shrugs off his jacket and stands up to assemble the bow; he's slower than usual because of the limited space, and just as he braces himself on splayed legs to string it, Tracer's voice rings out again. "You may wanna get ready, guys, I'm gonna have to dive really low really fast and it might get a tad bumpy."

He feels watched as he carefully bends the bow's arm, hoping that the promised bumpiness doesn't start in the next five seconds. He _is_ being watched; everyone but Mercy is looking at his movements, like they have never seen a bow being strung — maybe they haven't? — and the string slides smoothly into place just as McCree takes a breath and opens his mouth to say something. Hanzo raises his eyebrows slightly, half a question, half a challenge, but whatever the cowboy planned to say never comes out, because the plane banks sharply forward and to the left, and Hanzo remains upright only because of his wide stance. Morrison's hand shoots forward and he grabs it, doing his best not to trip on the bow — he has to drop it onto the floor to free his leg — and he throws himself into the seat a second before the plane banks again, and if it wasn't for Morrison's arm now outstretched across his chest, he'd fly straight out of the seat and into McCree.

"Sorry!" comes through the earpiece. "I did warn you— okay, but now really get ready!"

The seatbelt's buckle finally clicks. "Thank you," he manages, pulling the bow closer with his heel; the jacket is in the middle of the floor now, and the backpack-quiver has rolled all the way under McCree's feet. McCree lifts his boot and for an irrational second Hanzo expects him to stomp on it, but he merely keeps it carefully in place until the plane stabilizes for a few seconds, hooks a foot through a strap and kicks the quiver in a low arc towards Hanzo, right into his hands.

"Oh no you don't," Tracer mutters, then raises her voice in a sharp "Hold on!". The plane plunges so abruptly that Hanzo's stomach jumps into his throat. "Sorry! We're getting some flak. They suck at aiming, so we should be good. I'll sit us down in a few but be ready, because there's definitely a welcoming committee waiting, and I'm pretty sure I saw a shooter on the left tower."

The jet engines cut off, giving way to a loud whine of overworked lift fans. McCree unbuckles his seatbelt, heaves himself upright and stumbles toward the cockpit. "Yeah, I see him. I can take him down if you get the ramp open."

"No can do, I don't want to dodge another missile on fans alone. You'll have to get him from the ground. At least he won't have line of sight if I land behind these buildings. Hold on to something, touching down in ten!"

Everyone stands up the moment the jet makes contact with the ground. Hanzo picks up the jacket and tosses it onto the seat behind him — it would hinder his movements too much, and it's a warm day already anyway — then unzips the backpack and slings it over his back, running his fingers briefly over the fletchings.

Reyes turns on a portable holomap and sticks a finger in the spot where they landed. "Shimada and I go first, though here. Should be able to get to their lookout without getting shot at. You lot get to the buildings and wait for our signal."

"Keep the engines hot, Lena," adds Morrison, "we might need to take off in a hurry."

Hanzo takes a deep breath, realizes that he's grinning faintly in anticipation, and runs after Reyes, down the opening ramp and into the bright sunlight.

 


	3. Charm

Wherever the Talon forces are, they aren't between them and the sniper's nest. This part of the training facility is constructed in a style that's somewhere between Old European and Middle Eastern, and the empty skeletons of buildings are packed tightly enough that they can weave through them without ever crossing the sniper's line of sight. Reyes moves fast and surprisingly quietly for a man of his bulk; they sneak through the eerily silent pseudo-city undisturbed right until they reach their target, a concrete imitation of a church tower or perhaps a minaret, and there's no way they can cross from the grey prefab wall they're huddled under to the tower's entrance without getting noticed.

"I'll get his attention," mutters Reyes. The laryngophone picks up his voice with crystal clarity even though he barely moves his mouth. "Make it quick in case he's good at multitasking."

Hanzo tenses up, ready to run, and watches Reyes dissipate into black mist again. It's just as creepy as before, especially that the oily vapor doesn't disperse, but concentrates into an eerie approximation of a human silhouette instead and floats outside, looking like a bad CGI effect against the background of sunlit sand. A shot rings out the moment Reaper is out in the open; he pretends to dodge it, even though the bullet obviously went right through him and kicked up a shower of sand under his feet, and Hanzo waits until the second shot to leap out of the door, sprint across the ten or so meters of open space, roll through the entrance and land on one knee, bow already drawn. There's nobody waiting at the bottom of the spiral staircase.

Reyes floats in after him and rematerializes with a grin on his face. "Bet he's shitting bricks up there. I'll go first and past him, either he turns around and you shoot the fucker, or I get him from behind. Ready?"

Hanzo nods. "Watch for traps. He could have rigged the staircase."

There are no traps, just a single freaked-out guard at the top of the tower, and Hanzo is glad of how steep the staircase is when both the guard and the sniper open fire at the entrance, Reyes explodes into a cloud, and the salvo goes right through it and whizzes above Hanzo's head. The guard gets an arrow through his shoulder a second later and drops to the floor howling, Reyes bears forward like a vengeful ghost, and the sniper drops to her knees in surrender, hands up and eyes wide, just in time for Hanzo to hold back the arrow that would have pinned her to a concrete pillar.

The sniper stiffens when Hanzo knocks the guard unconscious, unceremoniously ripping the arrow out and wiping it on the man's clothing, and visibly pales when Reyes solidifies again with one of the massive shotguns pointed at her head. Hanzo creeps to the window and risks a careful peek: there is no movement below and no visible enemies, just unsettling silence, even though the gunfire must have been heard clear across the entire area.

"Located the tank," he murmurs. "It's standing in the plaza in the middle of the facility. Doesn't seem to be active. No sign of further hostiles."

"Stinks of an ambush," Morrison comments over the comms.

Hanzo takes a last look through the window before moving behind the sniper to disarm her. Reyes keeps his weapon trained unwaveringly on her forehead like it's a small pistol and not a shotgun, and only lowers it after Hanzo swiftly divests the prisoner of all weapons and binds her arms behind her back.

"We've got a hostage here, McCree. Wanna come up and have a chat?" Reyes's mouth barely moves: he's subvocalizing. Hanzo turns to look at him, eyebrows raised — of all of his newly acquired companions, he would have expected Reyes to be the one running interrogations — but Reyes ignores him, still like a statue, until McCree appears in the entrance a couple minutes later, walks right past Reyes without acknowledging either of them and drops into a crouch in front of the prisoner. 

"Howdy, friend," he says calmly. "You alright? These dickheads treat you okay?"

"I… guess," replies the sniper hesitatingly. "I mean, I'm alive and in one piece, right?"

Hanzo glances at McCree, surprised, but there's nothing in his expression that should make the prisoner speak so willingly, just sympathetic interest and a warm smile, both ridiculously out of place in this scenario.

"That's the spirit." McCree beams like he's talking to a good friend, and now the sniper's lips curl up slightly too. None of this makes sense and Hanzo cuts a questioning look at Reyes, instead, but all he gets is a single shake of the head and a mimicked zipping of the lips. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Camila." The sniper visibly relaxes, as much as one can relax while kneeling on the floor with one's hands tied behind their back.

"Nice name. So, Camila, what have you been up to?" inquires McCree amiably. Something's happening here, something invisible and undetectable but so _wrong_ that Hanzo can feel the hair across his skin slowly standing up. Camila the sniper replies to McCree's questions without hesitation, freely and calmly divulging information in a way that should get her fired or shot depending on the nature of her employer, and if Hanzo did not witness the whole scene he would swear that the woman has been doped up with something — but no, he's been watching the whole time, there had been no drugs or injections. It's not even an interrogation. For all intents and purposes, it's just a talk. A perfectly friendly conversation, during which someone who was here to kill them tells them everything they want to know, without any sort of coercion at all.

Eventually, McCree stands up and tips his hat at the hostage. "Take it easy now, y'hear?" He walks out and down the stairs without saying a word to either of them, and the sniper placidly watches him go.

Hanzo stares at McCree's retreating back, then at Reyes in disbelief. He reaches to mute his mic. "What the hell was that?" he demands, not bothering to lower his voice.

Reyes moves behind the prisoner and renders her unconscious with a blow to the back of the head. "Later." Hanzo opens his mouth to protest, but Reyes gives him a sharp look and taps the microphone, too. "It's a thing he does. Long story. Ask after we're done here, alright?"

"It's Talon, as we thought." McCree's voice comes through the earpiece grimly serious, with no trace of the fake friendly warmth. "They're here mainly for the tank, but also to figure out if the rumors of Song CEO puttin' Overwatch back together are true. Guess that one's out of the bag, folks. There's twenty of 'em plus the technician workin' on the tank, and most of 'em are sittin' in an ambush ahead."

"Not much of an ambush anymore," says Morrison. "Nice job. Any visuals, Shimada?" 

Hanzo peeks out again, as fruitlessly as before. "Nothing. The streets are too narrow, I can't see much apart from the main plaza. I won't be able to provide support from here. I'll relocate to the roofs and move in parallel, give me a moment."

Reyes nods at him and returns downstairs to rejoin the main group, and Hanzo crouches in the window, considers the distance, and leaps. He's had better landings, the impact on raw concrete is jarring and the lack of his boots forces him to roll to lose the momentum, but at least he makes it to the roof with the bow in one piece and without losing any of the arrows. He leans over the edge to find both Morrison's rifle and McCree's revolver pointed at his head, and raises a hand in a greeting.

"Remind me to examine your joints later," Mercy comments drily in his ear. "I didn't expect to see someone jumping out of the window when I came upstairs. Thank you for not killing these people."

Hanzo acknowledges her with a grunt, waves at the men below and sets out forward, across the rooftops.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the ambush fails. The enemy soldiers make the mistake of not looking up, huddled in two-story prefab buildings along the more densely built side of the facility, and Hanzo simply guides the team away, out of sight and around the side, to arrive at the sunlit, dusty plaza from a different direction. Eventually, someone among the Talon with half a brain sends a drone up, but it's an unarmed surveillance model, and he takes it down with a single shot as soon as he hears the shrill buzz of engines in the silence that hangs over the place. He's forced to pull back a moment later as two groups open fire at his position, and at that point McCree lobs a stun grenade into the left group, Morrison lays suppressing fire onto the right, and all hell breaks loose.

The medic having stayed back with the hostages, it's four against twenty, but the odds don't feel bad at all, especially after Morrison and Reyes, fighting like a single, frighteningly efficient entity, all but wipe out the pocket of hostiles that got treated to a stun grenade. Hanzo stays in the back, happy to let others charge into the clouds of dust and shrapnel, ready to pick off anyone that tries to flank, and once the enemy's attention is well and truly focused on the other three, he finds himself an acceptable perch in a second floor window, with good cover and a perfect view of the scene.

They're all exceptional fighters. Reyes is clearly nowhere close to human, and judging by the way Morrison handles his enormous rifle he's at least abnormally strong, too. McCree's armed with a revolver that is large but not absurdly so, and in contrast to the superpowered duo actually uses cover and strategic positioning, only peeking out to land quick shots that don't seem to miss. Hanzo is begrudgingly impressed with his efficiency, despite or maybe even because of its comparative normality.

If it wasn't for whatever happened earlier at the tower, he could almost believe that McCree is just a standard human.

A three man group attempts to sneak around the building Reyes and Morrison are rampaging through, finally giving Hanzo something to do. One gets an arrow right through the eyehole of his ballistic mask, the other through the side of his head as he turns to check on his teammate, and the third has good instincts and immediately flattens himself on the ground, but he still doesn't know where the shots are coming from — the advantage of a bowman in a loud gunfight — and Hanzo bares his teeth victoriously and gets him in the back of the neck. As he scans for more targets, McCree lunges away from the mouth of the alley below and the burst of gunfire that clips the corner, rolls and crouches by the wall, revolver at the ready; Hanzo switches to the window that looks out to the alley and finds two hostiles, preparing to attack, but he can't shoot from this angle, the frame is too small for the bow.

"McCree. Two in the alley, jumping them from above," he murmurs and leaps off. There's no time to draw, so after he lands in a crouch behind the soldier further back he drops the bow in the dust with as much care as he can afford, kicks the man's legs from under him and crushes his windpipe with a precise strike. The other Talon turns at the sound of the scuffle and raises his gun, and Hanzo is just about to throw his own squadmate's body at him when McCree appears behind, so he dodges instead, not sure of how much McCree's bullets penetrate, and the decision proves correct when McCree takes half the man's head clean off. 

Hanzo picks up the bow and McCree gives him a strange look, but there's no time to talk because an unmistakable sound of an LMG cuts through the air, and they both instantly lunge for cover in the building that Hanzo just jumped out of. They huddle on the opposite sides of a wide window, in safe distance from the hail of bullets and splinters of concrete, but there is no way either of them can peek out while under this sort of fire, and McCree reports so over the comms.

"I see him," Morrison replies, not even out of breath. "One sec, I'll give him something new to focus on."

Hanzo counts seconds: he gets to seven before there's a small explosion in the distance. A grenade? The LMG stops briefly, then picks up again, but this time it's not battering their building anymore, and Hanzo peeks out quickly, the bow at half draw, with McCree doing the same from the other side. He locates the LMG instantly — the muzzle flash is hard to miss.

He glances at McCree. "Allow me."

"After you," mutters McCree.

It's not the easiest of shots, because all that's visible of the gunner is the upper half of his head and the flash doesn't help, so after he draws the bow fully he risks an extra half a second to aim. The risk pays off, no one shoots at him before he releases the arrow, and he has another one nocked in an instant, but the LMG has already fallen silent.

He waits for a moment to see if someone else picks it up, but it looks like the shooter was alone.

"Nice," comments Morrison.

Hanzo realizes that someone used the distraction to sneak up on them a split second before they open fire through the empty hole of the door. He dives for the floor, rolls, the change already taking over, aims — even with the adrenaline and demon reflexes it's too late — he would definitely get a bullet, if the black-clad soldier didn't stagger, knocked back by the impact of a high-caliber, close range revolver shot. Hanzo winces, half-deafened, but McCree's timely intervention has given him enough time to flatten himself against the wall, switch the arrow to scatter mode and send a spray of flechettes through the door. He's rewarded with a pained scream and a gurgle. It's enough of a deterrent for any remaining enemies to fall back for a moment, and he uses that moment to spin around, sees McCree duck under the window, reloading, and puts an arrow into the Talon who attempts to enter through the other door. The one that aims at him from the window a second later gets yanked through and down with McCree's metal fist, and pistol whipped unconscious.

Hanzo has had enough of fighting in buildings, so he gives McCree a terse nod and dives out through the empty doorway. One of the ambushers didn't wear a mask and the scatter flechettes got him in the face and neck — that one won't be getting up again — and the other's on the ground, slumped against the wall of the next building, weakly clutching at his thigh. Femoral artery. He'll be out cold in a minute and dead in another; Hanzo kicks the gun away from him just in case and steps over his legs to check the situation in the plaza.

Looks like they're winning: there are no further hostiles in sight, the gunfire is definitely dying down — another Talon flies out through the window two buildings ahead, and Morrison steps out and over his unmoving figure — and at that moment, Hanzo hears the sound of a heavy engine starting up.

"Mother _fucker_ ," growls Reyes.

"Take cover!" shouts Morrison, entirely unnecessarily because it's hard to miss the gigantic metal shape turning towards them on uncomfortably insectoid legs. At least it can't shoot, its two forward-facing cannons hanging unarmed and useless, but Hanzo swears and jumps back inside because the tank charges at Morrison with intent and frightening speed, and hits the corner of the building with enough force for the concrete to crack.

The plaza suddenly becomes a lot smaller with a tank on a blind rampage and scattered remains of Talon still trying to get them killed. The skeletal concrete structures around it are meant for urban combat simulations, not to withstand the impact of twenty tons of angry plasteel, and Morrison narrowly avoids getting crushed when a two-story building folds down like a house of cards. McCree draws the pilot's attention with a couple of potshots, allowing Reyes to pull his dust-covered CO out of the rubble and to relative safety, but it means that now the tank is bearing down on the building Hanzo and McCree are both in, and they scatter to opposite sides of the room a second before the mass of metal crashes into the window. Dust falls, the tank steps back just to ram the wall again, and all that Hanzo's demon reflexes are good for is that he sees the ceiling coming down on them in slow motion. He can't get to McCree in time, nor can he get out himself, all he can do is drop the bow under the wall and throw himself on top of it—

The load bearing wall protects him enough; he's temporarily blinded by the dust and he collects a couple of painful hits where the debris clips his back and right side, but he's alive and not severely wounded and the bow is blessedly in one piece. The tank has turned away: a shameful oversight from the pilot not to check if they're dead. Morrison is shouting in his ear, urgent and demanding response.

He rises, shaking off the rubble and coughing. "I'm fine," he manages. "Can't see McCree —"

There's a large, unbroken piece of what was previously the ceiling in the opposite corner, partially leaning on what remains of the front wall, right where McCree should be. Hanzo scrambles to his feet, leaps towards it, grabs the jagged edge and pulls. Even in demon form it's not easy to lift, but he's rewarded by the sight of McCree alive and conscious underneath, staring at him with wide eyes. An incredible turn of good luck — had the falling ceiling not gotten stuck on the wall, he would have been crushed flat.

"Got him, he's fine," he says, or tries, realizing too late he's let himself shift a bit too far and he's lisping unintelligibly through fangs. There's not much he can do about it, not while lifting at least half a ton of concrete. "Move," he barks, bracing himself and pulling as far as he can before dropping to a crouch and changing his grip; the groan of effort that rips out of his throat while standing up sounds more like a growl, but he's raised the slab of prefabricate as far as it can go, precious seconds are ticking away, and McCree is _still_ staring.

He doesn't look concussed. Is he really more afraid of Hanzo's form than being crushed to a paste?

"Get _moving_ ," Hanzo growls, "before this cracks in half!"

What comes out of his mouth is not really intelligible, but understood or not, it finally gets McCree out of the stupor: the man rises to his knees, hissing, looks around, locates his gun and hat, throws both out of his concrete cage and crawls after them on all fours. Hanzo waits until he's well clear of the corner before backing out and letting his burden drop. It cracks into three pieces on impact, and the largest falls flat exactly where McCree was a moment ago.

McCree coughs, spits, and slowly gets to one knee. Mercy is now the one on the comms, tensely demanding updates about his status.

"'M fine, just banged up a bit," McCree pants, wiping his mouth. "We're gonna have to EMP the fucker."

"No EMP!" shouts Reyes. There's a long burst of gunfire and another deafening crash somewhere outside, out of Hanzo's limited line of sight. "Need to keep the tank functional!"

"Fuck Torb and his toys," growls McCree angrily and stands up, clutching his left side. He tries to bend to pick up his gun and hat, staggers and hisses again. Hanzo wordlessly walks past him, lifts both from the floor, snarling a bit when the movement pulls on the cuts on his back, hands them to their owner and goes to fetch his bow.

"Gotta get out of here before the whole thing collapses," says McCree urgently. "Come on!"

He's right: three walls are still standing, but cracked, and if the roof comes down, no amount of luck will save either of them. Hanzo grabs the bow in passing and rushes out after McCree. The tank is busy wrecking the opposite side of the square, presumably chasing Morrison and Reyes, the shooting has stopped, Talon hopefully dealt with or maybe waiting for the tank to finish the enemy, and they safely get to a small one-story building — a shed, really — behind the ruined one and huddle behind it.

"I'm all for preserving valuable assets," pants Morrison over the channel — there's another crash, so loud it carries over the microphone — "but how do you suggest we take this thing out?"

McCree leans heavily against the wall, and Hanzo crouches and glances around the corner. Morrison is nowhere in sight, but a shadow that must be Reyes darts from the building currently being destroyed to the next one, barely visible through the clouds of dust, and the tank stops and swivels in place, undecided. The action is so weirdly human-like that it gives Hanzo a sudden idea; the shift is fighting him, self-preservation instinct in full force, but he manages to pull it back enough to be able to speak clearly.

"Does anyone have a gas grenade?" he asks.

There's a moment of silence. "Only flashbangs," says McCree. "Could still work."

"I got two." Reyes actually sounds out of breath now. "But there's no way I — fuck — no way I can get to it fast enough. Just got hit."

"On my way," says Mercy immediately, crisp and professional.

"No! Stay out for now. I'm okay, it's — just a flesh wound. Need to deal — with this piece of shit first."

Hanzo shrugs off the quiver and places it together with the bow under the wall. "Watch these," he says, staring into McCree's eyes; he expects defiance or at least hesitation, but there's none, just a confirming nod. He could try to weave through the remaining structures around the square to stay out of sight, but the spidertank is still trying to choose between the ruin that presumably contains Morrison and the next building where Reyes must be hiding, so he decides to just cut through at full speed. Nobody shoots at him, and the tank either doesn't have rear-facing camera feeds on, or the pilot is distracted enough not to follow.

He finds Reyes sitting in a corner, teeth bared in pain, and one look at his leg is enough of an explanation for both his expression and his ragged voice. Hanzo crouches in front of him and silently extends a hand; Reyes reaches for the bandolier on his hip, unclips two of the grenades and hands them over without a word. They exchange nods, and Hanzo creeps back towards the door, careful not to get the tank's attention this time.

"I need a distraction to close the distance," he says. "Five seconds should be enough."

Both McCree and Morrison try to speak at the same time; Morrison wins. "Nope. Sit your ass and wait, McCree, I'm the one still in one piece. I can get his attention, but better be fast. Give me the signal."

" _Now!_ "

The distinct sound of Morrison's heavy rifle cuts through the air; Hanzo takes a deep breath, squints to protect his eyes from too-bright sunlight and sprints out into the plaza just to see the tank turning away. Morrison steps out in the open, braces himself and fires what looks like an actual _rocket_ — whatever it is, it hits the ground in front of the walker's feet and explodes in a thick cloud of dirt — _perfect_ , he thinks and runs. The complete lack of visibility stops the tank for a precious second, two, three — he's almost at its hind legs now — fortunately the carapace isn't smooth, there are protrusions he can use as convenient handholds to launch himself up — he doesn't try to land quietly, there's no point, the hatch is easily identifiable and he reaches it in two leaps, pulls it up with ease, rips the pin out with his fangs, drops the grenade inside, throws the hatch shut and presses it closed with all his weight.

He half expects the tank to rear up like a horse, but of course it can't do that. The huge metal body under him staggers sharply backward, instead, lurches forward, then veers left — he realizes it's about to crash into yet another building and prepares to jump off — but the driver finally lets go of the controls, the spidertank stops moving, and for long seconds the only sounds he can hear are the idling of the engines, muffled coughing, retching and banging on the inside of the hatch, and the hiss of falling dust. Eventually, the pilot's attempts to get out grow feeble enough that Hanzo slides off the hatch, raises it and quickly steps back, out of the range of the noxious cloud of gas that follows.

It takes the Talon technician inside a good couple of attempts before he manages to drag himself up the ladder and flop weakly down, hanging half out the hatch. Hanzo watches his red-faced, gasping and blind struggles for a couple of minutes until he's reasonably sure it's safe to approach, and still holding his breath, he walks over, grabs the man by the collar, drags him out the rest of the way and unceremoniously dumps him to the ground below.

Morrison approaches with his massive gun aimed and ready, and Mercy announces over the comms that she will join them shortly. The shift fades away almost on its own, perhaps with a little incentive in the form of the grenade's acrid smell permeating the air; Hanzo spits out the bad taste in his mouth, winces at the soreness where the falling rubble left bruises and cuts, and jumps down, watching their prisoner's pitiful struggles to breathe. It occurs to him suddenly that he did exactly what he claimed he wouldn't do. He absolutely _did_ charge headfirst at a tank.

Morrison raises questioning eyebrows at the sound of his laughter. Hanzo shakes his head, trying to control himself. "It's the shift," he wheezes, suppressing the helpless chuckles that make his back hurt even more. He needs to fetch his bow and quiver before they get ambushed by some leftover Talon, instead of sitting in an open area unarmed and laughing like a maniac, but it's the longest he's been shifted in months, and the mild hysteria is an unavoidable price he has to pay. Only when Mercy appears in front of him and attempts to measure his pulse and test his pupillary response he finally gets himself together, redirects her towards Reyes and gets up to retrieve his gear. He doesn't need to go far; McCree steps into the plaza, limping and dust-covered, the quiver hanging off his shoulder and the bow in his hand, and he thrusts both wordlessly into Hanzo's arms before walking past to join Morrison, still standing guard over the pilot.

"Cleanup crew's on the way," Tracer reports while McCree gives the unresisting prisoner a pat down. "ETA ten minutes."

Morrison steps back and shoulders his weapon. "Police is going to show up soon after, we need to get out of here ASAP. Mercy?"

"Almost done. I would like to make sure that man doesn't suffocate before we leave."

"It's just a bit of CS, he'll be fine," grumbles Reyes, disgruntled, but a lot more lively than before. "Do we have to leg it all the way back to the jet?"

"Have a look around and tell me if you really want Tracer to try to sit down in this mess," Morrison says drily.

Reyes appears in the doorway, shielding his eyes, and steps somewhat gingerly out into the open. He definitely shouldn't be able to stand, not to mention walk, with the way his leg looked only minutes ago, but the only indication that anything was ever wrong is the blood-soaked rag that remains of his right pant leg. Looks like the doctor's talents are not only scientific in nature.

"If you fix him, we'll have to stay and watch him until the security arrives," Reyes points out as Mercy kneels in front of the technician and briskly inspects his red and swollen face.

"Can you persuade him otherwise?"

"I could," McCree says with audible reluctance, "but you know it ain't gonna last long."

Mercy's mouth twists in an unhappy frown. "Well, his life is not at risk, but—"

Morrison gently clasps her shoulder. "Come on, Angie. He'll manage for ten minutes."

"At least let me give him something for the pain."

Now that the adrenaline starts dissipating, Hanzo finds himself wishing she extended the offer to himself, as well, but he supposes he's merely sore — he's never been subjected to tear gas before and judging by the state of the man before them, it's an order of magnitude more unpleasant — and he resists the urge to ask, only a tiny bit jealous after Mercy disposes of the used syringe, coaxes the prisoner into lying down and stands up with a nod. 

* * *

They start moving towards the plane, significantly slowed down by McCree, who is silent but having enough difficulty walking that it's impossible to miss. Despite protests, he's finally ordered to sit down under one of the walls and remove his chest armor; judging by the matching smirks of the other two, resisting the medic's wishes is a futile endeavor. Shortly it becomes obvious that McCree can't get his armor off by himself, and Reyes sucks in air and whistles when Mercy finally pulls the thing off and carefully lifts McCree's shirt. The angry purple-black bruise starts over his lower ribs and spreads down his left side to disappear behind the waistband of his jeans. No wonder he's barely walking.

"I'm _not_ takin' my pants off," declares McCree, glaring ineffectually at the prodding hands.

"Shut up, Jesse, and let me work," Mercy replies, clipped. "Lean to the right if you can." McCree obeys with a wince, and the doctor pulls her gloves off and closes her eyes, spreading both palms carefully along his side. Hanzo can't help but stare because it's hard to tell for sure in the sunlight, but her hands seem to _glow_ as she lifts and resettles one palm lower, just above McCree's hip, fingers brushing the edges of abdominal muscles— and now he does feel compelled to look away, because too-long abstinence or not, ogling a man in pain is low even for his standards.

"Could've waited for biotics, you'll wear yourself out," McCree mutters rebelliously.

"Or you could have gone into shock from internal bleeding, you idiot. Don't move." Mercy's angry tone stands in stark contrast with the stylized armor and angelic demeanor of the newscasts of the past; McCree wisely shuts his mouth, and for a while no one says anything. "There. Next time _please_ ask for help when you're barely able to move. Blunt force trauma is not something to be taken lightly. I'll have an easier time regenerating my strength now, than bringing you back from an organ failure later."

"Yes, ma'am," McCree sighs after a moment of silence. "Thank you."

Hanzo looks again and even though he expected it, he's still surprised by how much better McCree's side looks: the massive dark bruise has been reduced to barely a slight discoloration of the skin. Mercy sighs and hangs her head for a moment, hands on her knees; Morrison steps over and reaches out, helping her stand up. "I'm fine, just tired," she says and finally smiles. "Anyone else hiding any life-threatening injuries? Jack? Hanzo?"

Everyone's eyes turn to Hanzo, who barely resists an instinctual step back. "Only a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing that can't wait until our return."

He gets a narrow-eyed, considering look from the doctor, but apparently he's believable enough, because she nods and resumes walking. McCree, infinitely more lively, all but jumps to his feet and snaps the body armor back on.

They have to make one more mandatory pause when Tracer takes a look at them and demands that they dust themselves off before they spread the mess all over her aircraft, and then they're finally off, just in time for the helicopter with the "cleanup crew" to land in the spot they vacated. Hanzo did not lie, his injuries are nothing compared to Reyes's or McCree's, but it turns out that both tightening the seatbelt and leaning against the seat are painful enough that he can't control a flinch, and he could swear he _feels_ Mercy's glare even before he looks up from the buckle.

"Superficial contusions," he assures her quickly.

She rolls her eyes. "What is it with you all, I will never understand. Do you _like_ being in pain? I could have at least given you something for it."

"I have my own means of anesthesia," he says, finally giving in to temptation and shifting. The pain dulls to a remote, manageable unpleasantness; getting temporarily deafened by the roar of engines is a tradeoff he's willing to make.

She perks up immediately. "Does it affect your healing rate, too?"

"Yes. Doesn't remove the injuries, of course, but I do heal faster, and I'm much more resistant to pain."

She purses her lips and gives him a considering look. "I can see why you would prefer to stay in this form."

Fortunately, she doesn't continue that thought. He already knows he's being way too liberal with the shift, falling into old patterns, and he does not need a reminder of why exactly it's a bad idea. He stands up instead to finally disassemble the bow, utilizing the temporary lack of discomfort. De-stringing it is much easier than the stringing was, now that they are at a stable altitude and not being shot at, and the only impediment he has to deal with are Reyes's legs taking up half the available space. The man's fast asleep, arms folded across his chest and legs stretched out, leaning slightly against Morrison, who doesn't seem to mind, scrolling through something on his phone. Mercy's back to whatever she was reading on the way out, and McCree— McCree is looking right at him from under the brim of the hat, sitting low over his eyes.

One would think that after being saved from certain death — and it didn't escape Hanzo's notice that he never got so much as a nod of thanks for that — he would find the demon form much less disagreeable. It's not like it's particularly ugly, either. Sure, the fangs and the grey skin and glowing white eyes won't win any beauty contests, but Hanzo is firmly of the opinion that they carry a certain aesthetic value.

The bow will need thorough cleaning and a more detailed inspection, but at first glance everything seems fine, even the sights that he fully expected to be misaligned. A small miracle after all the throwing around it had to withstand today.

McCree is still staring.

The temptation to confront him about it is strong, but it occurs to Hanzo immediately that McCree might be purposefully trying to get a rise out of him, to expose him as the aggressive monster he clearly thinks Hanzo to be. Hanzo may very well be a monster, but he isn't stupid. It's only his first day with Overwatch, and he already feels more alive than he had in ages. McCree can try all he wants; he will not allow himself to be sabotaged this easily. The bow case closed and secured, he turns fully towards McCree and raises his eyebrows questioningly, and McCree merely pulls the hat lower over his eyes and folds his arms in a mirror of Reyes's posture.

Hanzo buckles back into his seat, feeling doubly victorious.

* * *

The doctor outright demands that he shows up in the infirmary immediately after getting off the plane. Shower preempts anything else, though, and he realizes very quickly that he will need to get into it clothed to be able to peel the blood-crusted and dust-caked fabric off his back. It's hideously unpleasant. After a lot of hissing and wincing, having reduced his stock of wearable clothing to one t-shirt and one pair of pants, he doesn't need any more reminders to make his way to the medbay.

The examination proves it's really nothing serious, just a number of cuts and bruises, but he gets to lie under a low-power biotic emitter for five minutes anyway. The itch of skin knotting itself together a lot faster than nature intended is not the greatest of sensations, so he distracts himself by constructing a plan for the rest of the day. Shopping for clothes is first priority; the t-shirt he wore for the mission has already landed in the trash, and the rest urgently needs washing. He adds laundry to the mental list of things in immediate need of sorting out.

Mercy doesn't let go of him easily. After the tanning session under the biotic emitter there are still forms to be signed, blood samples to be taken for testing and research purposes, pills for jetlag prescribed, and a lecture about alcohol intake to be politely listened to — it never pays off to annoy the person taking care of one's health — and when he's finally allowed to leave, he's surprised to find Reyes waiting right outside the door.

"Good job today," says Reyes, pushing away from the wall and matching his stride. "For an unplanned field test slash team introduction, I'd say that went pretty fucking well."

Hanzo wholeheartedly agrees with that statement. "Thank you. How's your leg?"

Reyes glances down before responding, as if he's long forgotten about the injury. "Like new. Mercy is literally a miracle worker. You up for a team lunch? I think we earned a decent meal instead of these fucking canapés they keep feeding us."

Hanzo snorts. "I see you're not a fan of the catering."

"Damn right I'm not. Jack's always had a shitty taste. You coming, then?"

He really should go shopping instead, before he ends up with a choice between torn and bloodied and sweaty, but after the fighting and the shifting his stomach reacts to the idea of food with loud and insistent enthusiasm, and it's still early, anyway—

Reyes notices his hesitation. "Got other plans?"

"I don't have any clothes apart from these," he gestures at himself. "I was planning to go shopping while I still have something to wear."

Reyes claps him on the shoulder. "You can do that after lunch. Come on, there's an amazing shawarma place two blocks away and the boss is paying."

The stomach growls like it's got its own demon form. Hanzo consoles himself with the thought that the hunger would distract him, anyway.

The others are already gathered outside the building, hiding in the shade of the awning from the heat of the late July sun. Tracer waves at his sight, smiling, but it's the smell of tobacco that captures his attention first — McCree is standing a few paces away, smoking a cigarillo — and only after a moment he realizes there's a new person present, a stout, bearded man, as short as he's hairy, barely more than half the height of Morrison whom he's animatedly conversing with.

"…be glad I talked them out of remote control, at least," says the man gruffly, and Morrison raises a hand in an interruption, turning toward Hanzo.

"Shimada. This is Torbjörn Lindholm, our chief engineer. Torb, this is Hanzo Shimada, our new recruit."

The engineer gives Hanzo an appraising look and extends a hand. "I heard I have you to thank for not wrecking my tank. So, thanks. Call me Torbjörn." Torbjörn's grip is iron, but Hanzo's not a wimp either; their eyes meet, and he's rewarded with an actual guffaw for his effort. "I like you, boy. Come by my workshop later, we'll talk about your gear. Mercy's not coming?"

"She's tired after patchin' us up because of your goddamn toy," drawls McCree, unceremoniously stubbing out the cigar on a smooth granite pillar.

Torbjörn visibly reddens. "I _told_ you already—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." McCree waves him away and starts walking. "I'd say you can repay me with food, but seems like D.Va's got this one. She not comin' either?"

"She's in a meeting," says Morrison, clapping the sputtering engineer on the shoulder before following. "Talking to the police or press, I'm guessing. We'll get them takeout. Let's get moving, before someone figures out they should talk to us instead."

* * *

Sat at a table filled end-to-end with food, Hanzo slips into observer mode: he watches, listens and learns.

The curly-haired waitress openly flirts with McCree, but he doesn't flirt back. Yes, he thanks her profusely in that smooth baritone of his, and the roguish smile transforms his face from ruggedly good-looking to unquestionably handsome, but there's no suggestion in the smile, the openings are left unfollowed, and she eventually leaves, professional enough not to show disappointment except for a slight slump of her shoulders. McCree notices Hanzo looking and the smile falls right off his face. Hanzo gets the urge to ask what his problem is, but reminds himself that he should be on his best behavior — judging by today's events, this is a job he definitely wants to hold on to — so he lets his eyes slide uninterestedly to the next person.

There's definitely _something_ between Morrison and Reyes, he concludes. The signs aren't obvious, just many small things, like automatically sitting next to each other or passing pittas and condiments without asking or even looking in the other's direction. It could come from a close relationship between a commander and his SIC, inevitable after years of working together, but the little details make Hanzo convinced there's more than that — like the way Reyes looks at Morrison when he's talking, or how Morrison's mouth quirks in a smile when Reyes continues the theme of teasing Torbjörn about the trouble his creation has caused.

When the waitress comes back to their table with more drinks and _kanafeh_ for dessert, she's all business, no trace of a smile anymore, and the stark difference in approach reminds Hanzo of the Talon shooter and her strange interrogation.

"What happened with that sniper at the tower?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. He's full nearly to the point of discomfort but there's no way he's giving up dessert, and the conversation has hit a lull, so the longer he keeps it up, the better.

All eyes turn to McCree, who pretends to focus on his food, ignoring the question, but the silence drags on and he finally relents, swallowing and shrugging. "We had a li'l chat. Possibly aided by my special brand of personal charm."

Torbjörn snorts the cap off his beer at that, and Tracer blows a raspberry. McCree doesn't seem to be forthcoming with more information, so Hanzo presses further. "That was no normal conversation. You coerced that woman somehow."

"A bit of harmless persuasion, is all," says McCree, finally looking him in the eye.

Hanzo is sure he didn't imagine the challenge in that look, so he raises his eyebrows. "You mind control people, then?"

McCree pushes away from the table, sprawls in the chair and links his fingers on his stomach. "Nope. 'S just a bit of a charm."

"What's the difference?"

"I can't make anyone do anything against their will, I can only make them feel like I'm their best friend in the world. If I told her to jump off that tower, or shoot herself, she wouldn't have." McCree smiles lazily. "But most people don't mind a chat with a friend."

Point to McCree: combined with the topic of discussion, that smile actually makes Hanzo somewhat uneasy. "I didn't see you do anything special. How does it work?"

McCree shrugs again. There's a glint in his eye that tells Hanzo he knows he's gained the upper hand. "Don't rightly know. If they're lookin' at me and listenin' to me, I can make them like me. That's about it."

"So, in theory, you could be charming me right now."

Now McCree openly grins. "I dunno, do you suddenly like me? D'you feel compelled to do something out of the ordinary?"

"The only thing I feel compelled to do is to punch you in the face," Hanzo replies truthfully, leaning back in to cut into his dessert and regroup after a lost round.

His declaration is met with general amusement. "Welcome to the club," says Torbjörn, raising his beer in a toast. 

"That's the effect he's got on most people when he's not messing with their heads," Tracer adds, mock-grim.

McCree forms a finger gun and points it at her with a wink. "And yet y'all still keep me around."

This time it's Morrison who snorts into his dessert. "We keep you for your skills, not your sparkling personality. Tell him how McCree got recruited, Gabe."

"You should be telling that story, not me," Reyes replies, but he wipes his mouth and turns towards Hanzo willingly enough. "So long time ago, we got asked to help clean up a gang of smugglers that grew a bit too ambitious. An easy job, we went through their main hideout like shit through a goose, and among the arrested there was this scrawny punk who told us, all serious-like, that we shouldn't kill him because he was a good shot and he could be useful." Reyes glances at McCree, who's looking down at his hands, smiling. "How old were you? Eighteen?"

"Something like that."

"And guess what: instead of telling Prince Charming to shut his mouth and handing him off to the officials like the rest of the gang, for some reason we took the little shit home with us. For three days it didn't occur to anybody that there was anything wrong with a skinny gangster kid camping in the mess hall, and then Jack and Mercy came back from a conference and asked what the _fuck_ was going on." 

McCree chuckles quietly. "I swear had no idea what I was doin'. I was just winging it as usual."

"So while the _actual criminal_ we've been allowing to live with us was busy stuffing his face, because that's basically all he did when he wasn't asleep, Jack gathered everyone and suddenly we were all wondering what the hell happened."

"I wasn't only in it for the food," protests McCree, grinning. "I remember I was also real impressed with your gear and setup. Even talked Ana into lettin' me try the shooting range."

Reyes makes a 'see what I mean?' gesture. "It took some trying, because the little shit was good with his handy charm ability, but we finally got him locked up in isolation, and everyone's heads cleared up after a day or two."

McCree huffs. "The best thing is, I really wasn't doin' it on purpose. I had no idea, I just talked to people and they liked me. Never knew it wasn't normal."

"It took a couple of weeks until the scientists figured out how he was doing it, and another month or two for _him_ to figure out how to _stop_ doing it," Morrison adds with a faint smile. "There was a lot of experimenting with intercoms, cameras and earplugs. All ended up well, but I'll never forget the face Reyes made when I asked him what the hell a dirty gangster kid was doing in my base of operations."

"Why did you keep him?" Hanzo asks, although he has an inkling, considering the clear undercurrent of fondness in this whole conversation.

"Well, he didn't lie, he _is_ a good shot," says Reyes, deadpan. "Too good, sometimes. Watch his eyes when he's busy shooting people and you'll see what I mean."

McCree spreads his hands. "What can I say, I'm a man of many talents."

Hanzo swallows a bite of _kanafeh_ and considers. "So, jokes aside, you _could_ still be charming everyone around you. For as long as nobody from the outside notices and points it out, it's impossible to tell."

McCree's smile falters briefly. "Got no reason to do that."

Point to Hanzo. "But, assuming you're telling the truth, you said you charmed everyone without even realizing it before. What if it's still happening?"

That wipes the good humor off McCree's face so fast, Hanzo knows he's hit a nerve. _Got you_ , he thinks vindictively, looks into McCree's eyes with a smirk, and startles from a sudden punch to his arm.

"Leave the boy alone," says Torbjörn gruffly. "I can personally confirm he's not charming everyone in sight because he annoys me just as much as he's always had."

"Thanks, Torb," drawls McCree. "Much appreciated."

" _Ingen orsak._ I'll let you know when you stop being annoying. Until then, you don't have to worry."

There's a long stretch of awkward silence afterwards. Having found his opponent's weak spot without even trying, Hanzo almost feels guilty for a second, right until he remembers the way McCree accosted him in the corridor the previous day. Nevermind that. It's an advantage over someone who's clearly against him staying here, and he'll need all the advantage he can get.

"Good job today," Morrison finally says in a clear attempt to change the subject. "That demon form of yours is pretty useful. I'm guessing that's why the Demon of Hanamura existed in the first place."

Hanzo nods stiffly. "It is expected of the head of the Shimada clan to assume the form. Intimidation factor and rational approach win negotiations, and physical advantage helps when talking doesn't cut it anymore. The advantages are considered more than enough to outweigh the disadvantages."

There's another heavy silence that tells him that everyone in the room knows the story of Genji and how the Demon ceased to be. Hanzo braces himself for a comment from McCree — it would be an easy jab to make — but it doesn't come; everyone pokes half-heartedly at the remains of their meals, instead, until Morrison wipes his mouth, pushes away from the table and declares that he has reports to write and lies to come up with.

Hanzo stuffs the last piece of dessert into his mouth and follows suit. Torbjörn invites him to his workshop for a discussion about armor, Reyes — to meet for the overdue tour of the building, and when Hanzo excuses himself for the time being, explaining the necessity of an immediate shopping trip, Tracer, who's been visibly nodding off over her plate, perks up and asks if she can come with. He doesn't really have a reason to decline — it's always easier to have an extra pair of eyes and hands — and as they walk back out into the sun, they're already arguing about which shop to visit first. 

* * *

Hanzo's plan consisted of walking straight into Rockefeller Center and picking up the necessities at the first store that met his needs. Tracer immediately invalidates the plan, stopping by several shops he would normally consider himself twenty years too old to visit and suggesting that he try on clothes he wouldn't even pick off a shelf otherwise, and he stops arguing very quickly because she does, it seems, have a good eye for these things. He actually finds himself pleased with the way he looks in most of the items she suggests, and after a while they fall into sync, picking up increasingly ridiculous pieces of clothing for the other to try on; he figures out pretty quickly that Tracer is specifically hunting for anything she can find that's even remotely dragon-related, and he has to draw a firm line at the underwear.

Between the fight and now the unexpectedly enjoyable company, he hasn't had this much _fun_ in a long while. Not even the awareness that this would be a good moment for the assassins to strike can spoil his good humor, especially after they walk out of yet another store with a pair of paint-splotch-patterned leggings for Tracer and ridiculous sweatpants for himself. The sweatpants have a golden dragon stenciled right on the ass and even though he had initially rolled his eyes, they turned out comfortable enough that he hesitated; that moment of pause was his downfall, Tracer sensed the weakness like a shark scenting blood and exploited it immediately, commenting on the way the color brought out the grey of his eyes and how the cut made his ass look good. Regardless of how far the compliments were from the truth, they were enough of an excuse to make a purchase. The dragonpants probably won't last long, anyway, he tells himself, not if collapsing buildings and open firefights are going to be a recurring feature in his daily routine.

Having returned to the tower with a staggering amount of shopping bags, Hanzo dumps them in the middle of the room to be sorted later and leaves for the kitchen to find something to drink — he hasn't talked this much in ages, and his mouth is reaching desert levels of dryness — and bumps into Torbjörn, who is pouring black coffee into a massive thermos. The engineer all but drags him down to the workshop, where he's directed to sit on a low bench by one of the cluttered workspaces, offered a tin of ginger cookies ("my wife bakes these, so you better like them"), and interrogated about his requirements when it comes to body armor.

Torbjörn lights up like a child in a candy store when Hanzo brings up the topic of his climbing boots. He might have lost the originals but he still has the design, which he retrieves from an encrypted vault in a couple of minutes, and after the schematic begins slowly rotating in the central holodisplay, the engineer immediately starts muttering criticisms and making notes about possible improvements. Hanzo assures him that he absolutely does not mind making the boots a little lighter or the shock absorption mechanisms more robust: he's happy enough with the prospect of getting a new pair so soon that he's content to give Torbjörn free reign when it comes to the implementation details.

At some point, despite the meds from Mercy and possibly due to the American-sized lunch followed by cookies, he starts nodding off, and has to dip into Torbjörn's reserve of coffee to be able to focus through the subsequent talk about armor. Having never used modern armor before he doesn't have much in the way of useful input, so he just answers the questions to the best of his ability, describing his skills and his way of fighting, and even gets off the bench to demonstrate some of the maneuvers as a means of explaining why mobility is the most crucial of required attributes.

"Does anything change in that demon form of yours I keep hearing about?" Torbjörn asks a while later while Hanzo, down to his underwear, stands still in in the laser measurement grid. "Size, shape, movement wise? Do you grow any extra bits?"

"I do, actually," Hanzo mutters, trying not to move his mouth too much. The grid flashes yellow anyway and emits an admonishing beep. 

Torbjörn tsks impatiently and walks over to check the control display. "Fifteen seconds. Almost ready… Done. You can talk now."

"I can grow horns," he admits, but to the engineer's credit, he doesn't even bat an eyelid — Hanzo supposes he's seen stranger things among superhumans. "Claws and fangs, too, the size of all three depending on how far I let it go. The full shift is a bit bulkier. More mass. I need to wear loose clothing if I plan to shift far, or it can become rather awkward."

"Mind demonstrating?" Torbjörn types quickly into the control panel and the grid resets to a uniform white. "It will be easier for us both if I have the exact measurements."

Again. For the fourth time within one day. But it's a sensible request, since any armor he might wear needs to accommodate for the full spectrum of the shift, so he steps out in order not to confuse the grid and shifts, this time letting it go fully, until his scalp itches around the bony protrusions and the fangs twist his lips, and the smell of oil, grease, metal and beer assaults his senses.

The engineer whistles. "A demon indeed! Although I thought you'd be bigger. Grid's ready, go for it."

So he does, and after the measurements have been taken, as he's pulling his pants back on, Torbjörn displays a hologram of both sets of results, side-to-side, and tilts his head, considering. "At least the size difference is manageable," he says. "Some elasticity should do it. I was afraid you'd blow up like Winston."

Hanzo has no idea who Winston is, but he can ask later; for now, he's just glad to finally be human again, because the smell of the machinery is offensive enough even without an oversensitive nose.

Torbjörn plants his hands on his hips and hums contemplatively, watching the slowly rotating double silhouette of Hanzo's body. "Alright. So: mobile, light, elastic, no gloves or fingerless ones, no helmet because horns… I should have some initial designs to run by you tomorrow, or maybe the day after."

"I'm honored," Hanzo replies, sitting down to pull on his boots. Torbjörn picks up a pad and starts scribbling notes, muttering to himself in what sounds like Swedish. The workshop, spacious but filled with tools, benches, displays and prototypes, is strangely cozy, with barely audible music coming from a speaker somewhere — sounds like old heavy metal — and while he's tightening the shoelaces, Hanzo lets his gaze roam. In the back left corner, next to the window, stands a giant suit of armor, vaguely medieval in style; the man it was made for must have been twice the size of an average human. Not far from it, on a small podium, surrounded by several loose parts, there's something that resembles a weirdly-shaped powered armor, or maybe just part of one, painted a vivid candy pink and covered in decals. Looks like he won't be the strangest of Torbjörn's customers, by far.

To his right, the door to the workshop suddenly opens. 

"Howdy, Torb. Gonna need your help with this one, 'cause I'm pretty sure I got a bullet lodged in…" McCree comes in with his breastplate slung by the straps over his shoulder, walks right past Hanzo's workbench-obscured seat without noticing, slows to a stop next to Torbjörn, in front of the hologram, and whistles. "Well, I'll be damned."

Hanzo stills with his fingers on the laces and watches.

"Bastard won the genetic lottery, didn't he," McCree says begrudgingly.

Next to him, Torbjörn shrugs. "I wouldn't know, I'm as straight as can be." He gives no indication that he knows Hanzo is still there and watching except for the undercurrent of humor in his voice, and Hanzo feels the corners of his mouth curl up.

"Don't gotta be gay to appreciate the aesthetic. Looks like a god, fights like a devil." McCree humphs. "Shame he's a murderous asshole."

That unexpected and quite accurate summary makes Hanzo exhale a quiet laugh. McCree whips around, alarmed. To his credit, he doesn't give any indication of embarrassment over the way he just unwittingly gave Hanzo a double compliment, he just glares angrily, like it's Hanzo's fault he's not observant enough. Hanzo stands up, reaching for his t-shirt with deliberate slowness, just to watch the way McCree's eyes drift towards his chest and stomach, and pulls it over his head in an equally slow, calculated display.

"Thank you, Torbjörn. I'll leave you to your work. McCree," he gives the man a perfectly neutral nod and walks out, hands in his pockets and chin held high, simmering with amusement.

His employment with Song Industries is shaping up to be very interesting indeed.

 

Fanart by [zet-sifo](https://zet-sifo.tumblr.com/post/172934397411/one-mans-hero-mataglap-im-in-love-with)


	4. Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter may be unpleasant to people suffering from claustrophobia and emetophobia. Proceed at your own risk.

The next two days are… well. Not _boring_ as such, because there's still plenty of things to do: legal matters to be dealt with in mostly illegal ways, necessities to be procured, supplies to be relocated, and people and places to get acquainted with. Hanzo catches up on correspondence, declines a few jobs his agent sent his way and marks himself as unavailable until further notice. Torbjörn delivers the promised armor design even faster than expected, and it looks so unsettlingly similar to the armor that Genji wore during their encounter in Hanamura that Hanzo recoils, heart in his throat. Aside from the purely emotional reaction, he has to admit that it looks good, sleek and light, modular, and he accepts it easier than he thought he would; he neglects to mention it around Torbjörn, but he has no intention of running around in a body-fitting suit of armor without at least wearing some pants over it.

In the end, though, after everything has been ordered, shipped, discussed and planned, Hanzo still finds himself with more free time than he knows what to do with. Normally, he'd be researching a mark or killing time in a rare lull between contracts, exercising, drinking, reading or watching nature shows; technically he can do the same here, but the excitement of a new environment still holds him in a firm grip, especially after fighting Talon and dodging tanks, and he finds himself in need of an outlet for the pent-up energy. In the end, he settles on visiting the gym, which is decently equipped and nearly clinically clean, even though the glass wall is somewhat off-putting; he's got no particular issue with people seeing him exercise, but the entire wall being transparent makes him feel a bit like he's an exhibit on display, especially after he catches McCree stealing glances from the social area's balcony while he's working out on the suspension training set.

The amusing revelation in the workshop casts a new light on McCree's behavior. The obvious conclusion is that what Hanzo had initially interpreted as fear might have been keen interest, and he knows he's attractive, he has eyes and a mirror, but the interest is especially satisfying when it comes from a man otherwise determined to hate him. Between sets, he lazily considers acting on the opportunity. McCree is undeniably skilled and definitely not ugly, and he doesn't have to be Hanzo's greatest fan to sleep with him — hate sex is still sex, and the shiver he gets at the thought is proof enough that it's been too long since he last had someone in his bed.

It's not quite a decision yet, but it's a pleasant idea to consider, and fucking McCree despite all his reservations would be a double victory. Hanzo _likes_ to win, and he's aware he can be more than a little spiteful. He pretends not to have noticed that he's being surreptitiously watched, strips off the t-shirt and continues training, now enjoying the knowledge that McCree is likely resentfully staring from above.

After maybe an hour, he's joined in the gym by the biggest woman he has seen in his life. Hanzo is no wimp, he maintains the musculature of his upper body through a stringent exercise routine and the use of the bow, but compared to the woman's arms his own look… well, maybe not like matchsticks, but he's definitely no competition. Not even in the same league. The woman throws her towel over the bar of the deadlift platform and turns towards him. Her hair is the shade of pink that would make teenage Genji swoon in delight, she's wearing bold makeup — permanent? — and her expression is neutral, but the glint in her eye makes him prepare for a confrontation all the same.

"I am Aleksandra Zaryanova," she says with a heavy Eastern accent. "People call me Zarya. You are the other Shimada, yes?"

Hanzo jumps down from the pull-up bar and dusts off his hands. "Yes. I'm Hanzo."

Zaryanova watches him for a moment, scrutinizing. "You fought with your brother."

"I did."

"Hm." Whatever the results of the assessment, she doesn't give any indication of hostility; she just nods at him, turns back towards the platform and starts wrapping her wrists. The conversation clearly finished, Hanzo goes back to the pull ups.

"I was in Nepal with your brother," she says after a while, mid-stretch. "We came back an hour ago."

Hanzo freezes for a second, then resumes the exercise without a word.

Zaryanova finishes her stretches and turns towards him again, an impeccable eyebrow slightly raised. "You do not want to go see him?"

This time he completes the set before dropping down to answer. "I'm sure he will find me if he wishes to talk to me," he says, in a tone hopefully flat enough to discourage any further questions, and it seems to have the intended effect: Zaryanova shrugs, grabs a foam roll and walks towards the mats in the corner.

"I heard you turn into a demon," she adds after another moment of silence. 

The mats are outside his field of view, he's clearly not expected to interrupt his workout to answer, so he just grunts out an acknowledgement between reps.

"How strong are you as a demon?"

Hanzo considers being courteous and decides on honesty instead. "Probably stronger than you."

She laughs at that, boisterous. "I am strong, too. Arm wrestle me the next time you're a demon. There is no one else around here who can beat me. Maybe you will be a good opponent."

Privately, he doubts that her impressive, but still human muscles can match the supernaturally-powered demonic strength, and he probably shouldn't make any more enemies around here — but declining the challenge is as much out of the question as letting her win just to stay in her good graces, and besides, she does look like she could appreciate a competitor. "I will be honored," he replies politely.

She appears in his field of view again, beaming like she's been given a compliment and not borderline insulted. "Very good. I will remind you later. But you should still see Genji. He was very excited when he heard you came here."

Hanzo controls the wince, but just barely. Considering the last interaction he had with Genji — and the one _before_ that — seeing him is the last thing he wants to do, especially now that he's started settling in. Mercifully, Zaryanova doesn't push, but loads the bar with a truly staggering amount of weights and sets to lifting, and Hanzo progresses to suspended push-ups and attempts to get his mind back into the state of mindless contentedness.

Searching for a distraction, he even glances up at the social area, but McCree is gone.

* * *

Hanzo cowardly skips dinner.

On a whim, he asks Athena for recommendations, and she actually does suggest a small sushi place a short walk away. The food is decent, modified for American tastes, but with the staples still available, and Hanzo orders sake, picks a few colorful plates off the belt and lingers even though he doesn't really have much of an appetite, delaying the inevitable return to the HQ. Eventually, the evening rush starts and even though the staff doesn't say a word, he knows that further occupying a spot at the bar without ordering would be rude. He pays the bill, at the last moment remembers about the tipping, compliments the _itamae_ and leaves after exchanging bows; he will definitely come back and sample some of the more expensive items on the menu, when his mind isn't occupied by unpleasant memories.

In hindsight, the thought that he could avoid Genji was thoroughly stupid to begin with. The cyborg that was once his brother simply sits outside Hanzo's room, legs crossed, typing something on his phone. Hanzo freezes in the elevator; the door nearly closes in his face before he remembers to step out.

"Hello, brother," says Genji. Without the helmet on, there is no doubt that it's actually him. Disfigured, burned and scarred, but still Genji.

"What are you doing here?" asks Hanzo flatly.

Genji stands up smoothly and leans against the wall on the far side of Hanzo's door, hands in his pockets. The hoodie and sweatpants hide most of his body, but the bare feet that stick out of the pants are very obviously cybernetic. "Waiting for you to show up, of course."

Without a word, he goes to unlock the door: one standoff in this corridor was more than enough for his tastes, and if there has to be talking, it's better that they do it in a soundproofed room.

Genji tilts his head, birdlike, yet another mannerism that proves it's really him. "I'd like to talk to you. Would you accompany me to the roof? I know of a spot that will give us some privacy, and a pleasant view as a bonus."

For a split second, Hanzo imagines Genji throwing him off that roof. "Very well. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Mercifully, Genji doesn't argue, only nods and leaves without further discussion. Hanzo closes the door, leans against it and breathes until his hands stop shaking.

Ten minutes later, he steps out of the elevator near the landing pad. Genji's waiting there for him, still barefooted and empty-handed — some part of Hanzo expected him to be armed, and he's not sure if the lack of weapons makes this better or worse — and he wordlessly gestures at Hanzo to follow. The spot he had in mind turns out to be a corner behind the hangar, shielded from the lights of the landing pad and offering a picturesque panorama of Manhattan and the bay. The view is especially pleasing now that the sun is setting, painting the sky an intense shade of orange. They settle on the edge, Hanzo in loose _seiza_ and Genji crosslegged again; it's not so hot anymore, but the concrete has stored enough heat that it's comfortably warm to sit on.

For a while neither of them speaks. Hanzo watches the city below, trying to remember the last time they talked — not argued, not fought, just sat and talked — and he can't remember anything other than the first meetings after Father's death, with Genji quiet and shocked by grief out of his usual antics.

They're sitting on the very edge. If he leans slightly forward, he can see the street far down below. Genji would only have to reach out and give him a slight push.

"You're wearing Overwatch colors," Genji says finally. "Is that intentional?"

Surprised, he glances at his clothing: blue pants, white t-shirt with blue raglan sleeves. "No." A realization dawns. "…I went shopping with Tracer. She might have had an ulterior motive."

Genji chuckles at that. The laughter emphasizes the synthetic undertones in his voice. "How many blue and white garments did she make you buy?"

"Too many. At least I like blue."

"Did she also make you change your image?" Genji waves a hand in the general direction of Hanzo's face. It used to be exclusively Genji's thing: Hanzo still remembers his experiments with hair dyes and makeup, some more failed, some less. Now Genji's hair is the normal black, and his face is well beyond what any makeup could fix. "It suits you," continues Genji, with an amused lilt to his voice now. "Are you going through a belated rebellious phase?"

He shrugs. "I had to wear disguise for a job, and never had a chance to remove it before I came here. It grew on me in the meantime."

"Funny," says Genji contemplatively. "I used to be the beauty, you used to be the beast. Now look at us."

There is nothing he can say to that. He resists rubbing his sternum, over the old, burning knot of guilt and terror and rage, and wonders why Genji brought him here. He could ask, but he doesn't want to hear the speech about forgiveness again. It's true that Genji had always bounced between extremes, love or hate, all or nothing, but Hanzo knows just how much his brother grew to hate him in the years after Father's death, he experienced it first hand through endless fights and open insubordinations and less open, but just as obvious sabotages — anything to get a rise out of the Demon — and there's no way all that hate just disappeared, not after Hanzo maimed him and left him to die.

If Genji attacked now, if he was armed and tried to finish what he started in Hanamura, Hanzo would understand. It would be simple, logical and well deserved, and he's not sure he would even bother to put up a token fight. But this? He has no idea what to do with this.

In Hanzo's peripheral vision, Genji's ramrod straight posture relaxes a bit and he sighs."Why did you decide to come after all? I thought you dismissed my invitation when a month passed without contact."

He couldn't contain the disdainful snort even if he wanted to. "I could have simply missed it. What was the point of that parlor trick?"

"Same as with all tricks. Fun." Now it's Genji who shrugs, a familiar insouciant gesture. "It would not do to hand out business cards when I have a cyborg ninja image to maintain." He rolls his eyes at the sight of Hanzo's glare. "I wanted to give you a lead that couldn't get intercepted by any of the assassins that were undoubtedly following you — _everyone_ knows that Shimada Hanzo appears in the castle every year on _Kodomo no Hi_ — and you didn't seem to be in the mood to exchange phone numbers. I knew you wouldn't miss it and clearly it worked, since you're here. And you didn't reply to my question: why did you come after almost two months?"

"Why did you ask me to come?" Hanzo shoots back.

"So that you, too, can experience a life that doesn't consist _entirely_ of murder, violence and extortion."

He sounds like he practiced that line. There's another moment of silence; Hanzo looks down, at the hypnotizing pulse of traffic, knowing that Genji is watching him closely and determined to ignore that knowledge.

"Fine, I'll ask some other time," Genji says calmly. "What do you think of Overwatch so far, then? I wish you didn't make the decision while I was away, I really looked forward to the introductions."

Hanzo huffs. "Very… colorful personalities. Obviously talented and skilled. They would make formidable opponents."

"Of course you would evaluate people as possible enemies." Hanzo doesn't turn to look, but he can hear the smile. He hasn't seen Genji genuinely smile in much longer than ten years. "Are you getting along with everyone?"

There's a peculiar tone to Genji's innocent question that makes Hanzo suspect he knows perfectly well about the altercation with McCree. "I believe so. Tracer and Reyes have been exceptionally friendly. Even your doctor has abstained from cutting my throat so far."

"What about McCree? I hear he's been a bit of an asshole."

"Why do you ask if you already know? And is he always like that, or is that dubious pleasure reserved only for myself?"

"Generally, yes, he's usually like that," Genji says after a moment of consideration. "I also might have painted you in less than flattering light on several occasions in the past. Is he still being difficult, though? He called me right after you arrived, and we had a long talk about all the ways I was going to hurt him if he made you leave before I returned."

Hanzo shrugs. "He hates me, and also doesn't check corners after walking into rooms, talks too openly, and apparently considers me attractive."

Genji snorts. "Does he? That's a good one. Are you going to do anything about it?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet." This time Hanzo fails to resist a quick glance; it's so strange to see his little brother's signature mischievous grin on this ruined face that he averts his eyes even quicker. "Why? Are you suggesting that I should?"

"Gods, no. Although, any human interaction you engage in that doesn't result in murder should be considered a win."

Hanzo has no idea why Genji is talking about trivialities and ignoring the mammoth-sized elephant in the room, but he's absolutely fine with it. He'll be happy never discussing their past, or their motivations, or the fact that Genji's guardian spirit went right through him without causing him harm, which means that against any sense or reason his brother has somehow truly forgiven the unforgivable, and left Hanzo with a debt that can't be repaid and a crime that can't be redeemed anymore.

He takes a deep breath, stares at the lights far below and wonders if throughout this conversation, Genji has thought about pushing him off at all.

* * *

They stay on the roof for a while longer, not really talking anymore. Hanzo sits unmoving and stares unseeingly at the city, intensely aware of Genji's presence, and only after Genji bids him goodnight and leaves he realizes he's aching all over from the tension. He desperately wants to get drunk, but one look at the common area, crowded and loud with many raised voices, is enough for him to escape to his room, instead; he's absolutely not in the mood for socializing or meeting new people, he's not in the mood for anything, in fact, and in the end he just goes to bed, somewhat early, but hoping that sleep will bring him reprieve.

Naturally, sleep doesn't come. He tosses and turns, tries not to think about Genji and the past and can't think of anything but, tries to consciously relax tensed up muscles only to discover he's like a coiled wire a minute later, and in the end, when his stomach decides to add to the general misery with a hungry rumble, he just gives up. He must have dozed at some point, even if he could swear he was wide awake the whole time, but it's two in the morning and surely he hasn't been lying there for almost three hours, even if he feels like he has.

Hopefully whatever was going on in the social area has ended. Hanzo pulls on a t-shirt, steps into sneakers and heads for the kitchen. The downside of the catering is that there are rarely any leftovers to be found in the fridge, so after glaring resentfully at the rows of milk and juice cartons taking up most of the space on the shelves, he selects one of the over-sweetened flavored yoghurts and sits at the table without bothering to turn on offensively bright kitchen lights.

The door opens and Tracer appears in the entrance. Hanzo only has time to notice how the device she wears lights up the kitchen before she yelps and disappears in a bright blue flash. Hanzo winces, half-blinded; after a moment Tracer walks back in, wheezing theatrically and flattening a palm against her chest.

"Holy hell, you scared the shit out of me. Do your eyes always glow in the dark?"

Hanzo didn't even realize he had shifted — but of course he has, that's why he's fine with no lights on, he can even feel the tell-tale itch of the bony protrusions below his hairline. The reasons may have changed, but Genji has always had an exceptional talent for ruining his self-control.

"I apologize if I frightened you," he mutters.

"Well," she puts her hands on her hips, "not quite _frightened_ , thank you very much, but I can't say I expected a pair of glowing eyes in the dark. It looks kind of cool, actually, in a horror movie kind of way. Why are you sitting here with the lights off, anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep."

She nods like she knows what he's talking about and maybe she does, since she, too, is haunting the kitchen at two in the morning. "Genji's back, huh. Alright, can I put the lights back on? 'Cause it's even more unnerving when you're glaring."

Hanzo huffs despite himself. "Go for it. I was going to change back anyway."

Tracer winces suddenly and runs a hand through her hair. "Crap, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be an arse, don't change on my account — you look fine, kind of sexy, actually, it's just the eyes in the dark thing—"

"I know. It's fine. I shouldn't stay in this form for too long, anyway."

He's rubbing his forehead when the lights come on.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, sounding genuinely concerned, and drops into the opposite chair.

"No. I'm not sure how to describe it. It feels… as if the body is confused about a suddenly missing body part. It takes a moment to forget about it, so to speak."

She hums thoughtfully and drums her fingers on the table, while he half-heartedly scrapes the rest of the yoghurt off the walls of the container. "Hey, wanna get drunk?" she says suddenly.

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. "I was thinking about it."

"'Cause I can't sleep either. I miss Em," she says glumly. "Emily, my girlfriend. Haven't seen her in ages — in person, I mean, I just got off a quick video chat before she had to leave for work. She doesn't want to drop her job to come here and I don't really blame her, but the long distance thing sucks. I can't get used to sleeping alone."

Hanzo can't really relate — sleeping with someone else has been out of the question for a number of years, now — but he can understand longing well enough, so he grunts in sympathetic acknowledgement.

Tracer inhales deeply, exhales in a gusty sigh and slaps both palms on the table, standing up. "Come on. Let's get pissed and cry about life being hard, and hope that Talon doesn't attack tomorrow."

Normally he would prefer drinking alone, but there's something to be said for not being stuck inside his own head with only insistent thoughts for company, especially when the thoughts are full of steel and blood, and of how _right_ it felt to fight Genji until he realized his own brother was dying at his feet — so he gets up without a word and follows Tracer out to the empty sofas, grabbing a bottle of whiskey on the way.

An hour later, he finds himself moderately drunk and listening to Tracer rhapsodizing about Emily. She's less of a lightweight than he expected her to be, considering her small and skinny frame, and as much of a talkative drunk as Hanzo is a broody one. He appreciates the way she fills the silence, even when she starts repeating herself, because it leaves no space for the thoughts; they still lurk, hovering at the edges of his consciousness, but the alcohol and the chatter drive them back into darkness.

"Do you have, you know, someone back there? Waiting?" she asks, squinting at him over what has to be her fifth gin & tonic. Hanzo nearly chokes on his drink. "What?!" she demands, drunkenly offended, while he coughs, trying to get the whiskey out of his air passages.

"I'm an _assassin_ ," he says incredulously when he's finally able to breathe.

"So what? You could have a — I dunno, a lady-assassin waiting for you. Or," she notices his grimace, "a gentleman-assassin! You know. Someone equally scary to cuddle with after a job."

Hanzo leans back and frowns at her over the rim of the glass. "Assassins don't exactly mingle. How do you imagine that would work?"

"Oh come on. You've _got_ to have met some interesting lads over the years," she insists, hiccups mid-sentence, and reaches for the gin again. Hanzo eyes the bottle and decides to discreetly remove it after this one.

"Any interesting people I might have met are the ones I have to beware of the most. Because they are the ones most likely to kill me," he adds, probably unnecessarily — she did say he wasn't the first killer she knew. "Whom did you have in mind when you said you knew killers? Reyes?"

"Yeah. And McCree." She pours more alcohol over the melting ice cubes and sinks against the backrest. "Reyes killed Song senior, did you know?"

Hanzo didn't: he startles and leans forward. "What?! Does D.Va know?"

"She does." Tracer nestles deeper between the sofa's cushions and pulls her knees up to her chin. "You see, after Overwatch got delegalized, Morrison and Reyes had a bit of a falling out, and Reyes disappeared. I think Jack was just pissed off at first, and by the time he got worried, it was too late. Poof, boyfriend gone. Eventually it turned out that Talon abducted Reyes, did some nasty shit to him and brainwashed him into their private assassin."

"So the whole… wraith thing is—?"

"Yeah. A present from Talon. So this was the main reason Jack started getting the crew back together. Took us a while, but eventually we caught Reaper, Mercy and Winston figured out how to fix him, and Jack got his boyfriend back, but not before he went and offed Papa Song." She nods at the sight of Hanzo's wince. "Awkward, right? Fortunately, Song senior wasn't the nicest bloke in the world, and Hana got over it really fast after she became the CEO and discovered all the nasty stuff her dad was involved in. I think she got it in her head that she has to compensate for her old man being a tosser. She told Jack she'd personally finance Overwatch if she could join, and she's badass so Jack didn't even think twice. And here we are."

Hanzo processes that for a while, shaking his head slightly. "So she doesn't hold it against him…?"

"Well." Tracer makes a vague hand gesture. "It's a bit of a touchy subject. Best not to bring it up. But Reyes wasn't himself when he did it, and Hana was never close with her dad to begin with, so…"

Maybe that's why Reyes has been so strangely friendly from the beginning. A killer recognizing a killer. But then…

"What about McCree?"

She yawns before answering; with that and the way she's slurring, Hanzo gives her ten minutes at most before she falls asleep. "Well, you know the story, gangster and all that. He really is a crack shot, but… Look, when someone tries to kill you, it's fair game to kill them first, but you don't particularly _enjoy_ it, right?"

Hanzo chooses to keep his mouth shut.

"But McCree sometimes gets into this sort of… I dunno, mood?" She shrugs helplessly. "Like he _is_ enjoying himself, like the killing is _fun_ , and then he's really bloody scary. Word of advice? If you see his eyes go red, better stay out of his way."

Hanzo raises his eyebrows. "Red eyes," he repeats sceptically.

She wrinkles her nose. "Not like, Dracula-style red. It's more of a… weird shine. Dunno how to describe it. You'll probably see soon enough."

It takes Hanzo's addled mind a while to work through that mental image, and he's forced to conclude that he probably shouldn't find it as much of a turn-on as he does.

When he carefully makes his way back to the common area after taking a piss, Tracer's already horizontal and asleep. There's nothing in the vicinity to cover her with, so after brief hesitation he leaves her alone, decides not to brave the stairs, nearly falls asleep himself while waiting for the elevator, staggers back into his room and collapses into bed.

* * *

**_09:21 Tracer_ **

I REGRET EVERYTHING

Hanzo groans, pushes the phone away, shoves his face back into the pillow and does his best to fall asleep again.

There's another notification just as he's drifting off. He ignores it, and the one that comes shortly after. On the fourth one, he's completely awake from the annoyance alone and painfully aware of his hangover, and sleep definitely becomes a thing of the past.

He thumbs the phone on and glares blearily at the messages.

**_09:27 Tracer_ **

also I jinxed us, check the news when you're up

Winston says that stuff isn't natural

better wake up before you end up having to leave without morning coffee like I did last time!

He considers checking the news, and decides that nothing short of an apocalypse would be important enough to bother with before dealing with the hangover. A glance through the window shows nothing but a peaceful, painfully bright, sunny morning. The news can wait.

The shower leaves him feeling marginally better, but he still hides behind sunglasses from the unbearable brightness of the sunlit interior of the tower, and winces when the loud sounds of the TV next room welcome him in the entrance to the kitchen.

He should eat something. He definitely should not drink coffee. And yet he does exactly that, mildly nauseated by the very smell of food, and leans against the doorframe leading to the mess, cradling the mug in his hands, sunglasses still on, fully aware that he's a picture of self-inflicted misery. The news are on, and the TV is showing a map of some sort; Hanzo recognizes the characteristic silhouette of Texas, covered with concentric rings, and the commenter says something about an epicenter before a phone rings.

At one of the tables, Tracer sits between Reyes and two men Hanzo doesn't recognize, slumped over a plate full of food, and it's Reyes who answers his phone, reaching for the remote to mute the TV with the other hand.

Tracer notices Hanzo at about the same time as he notices her. "Hi," she says with a weak smile that spells deep regrets. "You look about as bad as I feel. Do what I did and grab a nice, full English breakfast. Best cure for a hangover."

Hanzo's stomach issues a clear warning after a mere glance at her plate.

"She's right," smiles the dreadlocked man next to Tracer. "It actually does help. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess. Hey. I'm Lúcio."

"Can you two shut up for a moment?" growls Reyes, and Hanzo raises a hand in lieu of a proper introduction.

The newscaster on TV looks worried. Reyes looks vaguely pissed off. For a while, the only sounds in the room are Tracer's fork scraping against the plate, a tinny murmur coming from the phone, and a pen moving against paper: the other man Hanzo hasn't met before, bespectacled and greying, is busy scribbling something on a growing stack of napkins.

Reyes finishes the call and rubs his forehead. "Mei reached out to her friends in NEIC. Nobody has any clue about what's going on, but everyone agrees that it can't be a natural phenomenon."

"Definitely not natural," says the napkin man quickly. "I've already isolated a pattern to the quakes. I don't have the exact timings so I had to approximate, but according to my calculations, the next event should occur in seven to ten minutes. I don't have enough data to predict the strength yet — did she get anything?"

"She did. Athena is retrieving readings from the NEIC right now. We should probably relocate to the briefing room," says Reyes grimly. "If they're not natural, then it sounds like our kind of job, and of course half the fucking team is hungover."

"Can always bust out the hangover tune," grins the man called Lúcio. "Wouldn't want us to look like men in black, like our friend here."

Now that he can, Hanzo nods in greeting. "Hello. I'm Hanzo."

"Yeah, I know, Genji told me about you. Nice to meet you." Hanzo stiffens briefly — but Lúcio is still smiling with the same friendly warmth, so clearly Genji didn't tell him much. "I'll fix everyone up if we have to go deal with this shit, you can stop worrying about it."

Reyes lets out a heavy breath and stands up. "I'll go wake Jack and let's continue in the briefing room. The rest of you, get ready. Chances are we'll be leaving as soon as we figure out to where."

The man with glasses jumps to his feet, gathers his stack of napkins and rushes after Reyes. "If we have the data, we should be able to pinpoint the epicenter—"

"So," asks Hanzo tiredly after their dialogue fades in the distance, "what's going on?"

Lúcio claps Tracer on the shoulder and pushes away from the table. "You tell the man, I gotta go make a mix if I'm really gonna be curing a mass hangover."

"Sure, I'll give him a rundown. First, go get breakfast." Tracer points her fork at Hanzo. "Seriously, I wasn't joking about the full English. The Brits are bloody experts at being hungover."

Hanzo winces, but he does need food, so he drops the sunglasses on the table, goes back to the kitchen, hovers indecisively at the catering table, realizes he's equally nauseated by pretty much everything, and gives up and loads his plate with eggs, sausage, bacon and grilled tomatoes. He brews some matcha in a weak attempt to balance the heap of greasy protein, and when he makes it back to the mess, Tracer beams at him as proudly as if he just ran in waving a Union Jack.

"So there's been a bunch of earthquakes in southern Texas overnight," she says as he sets to chewing through the supposed hangover cure. "Near the border, where stuff like that doesn't really happen, apparently. The first one was tiny and nobody paid much attention, except for scientists and conspiracy theorists, but there's been more, each one a bit stronger, and the last one registered in San Antonio, so now it's all over the national news."

He swallows with some difficulty and huffs weakly. "Tanks and earthquakes. Overwatch promotional materials weren't kidding about the extraordinary threats."

"Oh, you have no idea," she grins. "We need to go out for a proper pint with the guys at some point, tell you some of the stories. Anyway, the quakes are getting stronger and apparently happening more often, too, and Winston and Mei got worried and went to Reyes, and now they're reaching out to their big science contacts to figure out if it's something up our alley. Looks like it might."

Hanzo grunts in acknowledgement. Despite all sense and logic, the food does actually make him feel better, settles his stomach a bit. "What are we supposed to do against an earthquake?"

"Well, we could get a satellite view or fly over the area, maybe spot something suspicious? And sorry I woke you up. Wasn't going to, but it started looking like our kind of weird and Winston began freaking out, and I thought you'd probably want to get over the worst of the hangover before we have to ship out."

"I do. As much as I wanted to kill you when you did it. That man, with the napkins, was that Winston?"

"Yeah. He's bloody brilliant, has like, seven Ph.D's." Tracer taps her accelerator. "Built this for me. Without it, I wouldn't be sitting here nursing a hangover… wait, that came out wrong. I wouldn't be here at all, I mean. I'd be dead or crazy or worse."

Hanzo tries to remember what it was that Mercy said about Winston, but all he recalls is a vague mention of a problem opposite to his, which could mean anything, really—

"Good morning, agents," says Athena from somewhere above. "You're being summoned to the briefing room."

"Aaaaand here we go again," sighs Tracer, but there's a smile dancing in her eyes. "Last one to the briefing is a rotten egg!"

Hanzo gives her his coldest, meanest glare, and in a flash of light she's gone, leaving behind only an echo of a giggle.

* * *

"This is where the epicenter appears to be," says Dr. Winston. The holodisplay shows a map of terrain, highlighted with a bright red circle. "It's static and most likely underground."

"Let's have a look," mutters Morrison. He doesn't seem hungover and neither does Reyes, even though nearly everyone else in the room is wearing the suffering expression of someone regretting their last night's choices. The display switches to a slowly-moving satellite view; Hanzo eyes Morrison and wonders how Overwatch has access to a live satellite on a whim.

"It's going to take a moment to reorient the satellite," says the other scientist, Dr. Zhou. "But at least we have the coordinates and we can make predictions based on the data we got. Harold made some calculations."

Dr. Winston nods and pushes the glasses up his nose. "If we're going to act, we have to do it fast. The window between events is becoming smaller. And if the magnitude keeps growing as well… Texas is going to have a big problem before the day is over."

"Any ideas on what could be causing it?"

Both scientists shake their heads, perfectly synchronized. "It can't be a kinetic source," says Dr. Winston. "The size of the mechanism would have to be absurd. It's not any technology I have ever heard of, either. The only plausible theory we have so far is the one Mei's come up with."

"One possibility is a special talent, something similar to Zarya's," says Dr. Zhou without looking away from the display. "Theoretically, with enough energy supplied, Zarya could cause a seismic event as well…"

"That is good to know," says Zarya, perfectly calm and serious.

Dr. Zhou gives her a hilariously suspicious look, and there's a double snort from the back of the room. Hanzo's been aware of Genji's presence from the moment he got here; his brother's sat on one of the desks, next to McCree, still without the armor, still in his baggy hoodie and sweats, looking ridiculously _normal_ and as far from the deadly cyborg ninja as possible.

"Satellite's ready," announces Dr. Zhou after a while. "Zooming in."

There's a moment of silence.

"That's a farm," says Lúcio dubiously.

"Hundred bucks says there's a hidden facility under that farm," says McCree immediately.

Reyes rolls his eyes. "Of course there's an underground facility. Question is, whose facility is it and how are we going to infiltrate it."

"At least it's not likely to be the government's," says D.Va cheerfully. "Speaking of which: anyone know if government agencies are investigating? Any word from your contacts, Morrison? It would be very awkward to bump into the FBI."

"No idea, but knowing them, it'll take a while before anyone convinces them it's not a natural phenomenon, and then some more to get the machine moving. If we act immediately, we should have plenty of time."

"Flight time's about three hours if I really step on it," interjects Tracer. "Not sure that's going to leave us much time to actually go in there."

"Harold's previous estimation was correct," says Dr. Zhou. "We had a confirmed quake ten minutes ago, so the next one should happen in just over two hours. After that, the window shrinks by approximately twenty minutes with every event."

"Well then," says D.Va after a moment of weighty silence. "Guess you guys better get moving."

* * *

Torbjörn intercepts Hanzo with a call just as he leaves the briefing, and he brusquely demands that Hanzo shows up in the workshop before the team flies out. Hanzo could ignore the summons, of course, but he actually likes the old engineer with his direct, no-nonsense attitude, and they have twenty minutes before they have to leave, anyway, so he makes his way to the workshop, just to have something thrown at him nearly the moment he crosses the threshold.

"Not finished with your armor yet, but the vest is done, and it should be fine as a standalone piece. Put it on."

Hanzo examines the vest: it's strangely light for something that's supposed to be bulletproof. Wordlessly, he drops his gear onto a workbench and pulls his t-shirt off.

"Fastenings are magnetic, release is on the left side." Torbjörn walks over, shows him how to separate the pieces, helps him to maneuver the parts around his torso and let it all lock back together, snug and weirdly comfortable, moulded to fit his body. Hanzo knocks on one of the plates on his stomach, runs a finger along the elastic seam, scratches experimentally at the dark grey fabric underneath. "This is supposed to stop bullets?"

"That better not be doubt that I'm hearing," scoffs Torbjörn. "Of course it's going to stop bullets. To a point! You wanted light and mobile, no? If you want something that will withstand a .50 BMG, come back in a month, I'll build you a mech."

Hanzo huffs. "That won't be necessary," he deadpans and sets to testing the movement range, goes through the draw motions, kneels, rolls, twists, throws a few punches and kicks — but the armor stays on like a second skin. "How long until the other parts are ready?" he asks, too impressed to hide the childish eagerness, and it seems it was the right thing to say, because Torbjörn beams like a proud parent.

"Couple of days. The neck piece has been giving me trouble, it's hard to get it to fit around the jaw and ears without impairing mobility, but I'll get it done one way or another. Now off you go, save the world. Come back after for inspection."

After he bids the engineer goodbye, he can't resist examining himself in the reflective surface of the elevator door. The high-tech, minimalist look of the vest contrasts strangely with the intricacy of the traditional tattoo, and with the piercings and the undercut on top of that he's such a walking clash of styles, he almost considers going back to his room and changing into the dragon ass sweatpants, just to complete the effect.

He looks ridiculous and out of place, which is actually quite fitting, because he _is_ out of place here.

"What have you become," he murmurs mockingly at his reflection.

The elevator door opens, Hanzo finds himself face-to-face with the sleek, fully armored silhouette of his brother, and he nearly laughs, struck with the absurdity of the situation.

"I see you haven't managed to dodge Torbjörn," Genji says after Hanzo marches stiffly into the elevator and faces the door, jaw set. "If you don't stop him, he'll find a way to cover you in armor head to toe."

Hanzo unclenches his jaw with some difficulty. "Like he did with you?"

"Precisely," Genji says lightly. "Although I did actually ask for it, a long time ago, while I was still ashamed of my body. I'm not anymore, but I got used to it."

Something inside Hanzo snaps. "I don't know what you want from me," he says quietly. "I don't know why I'm here. I can't turn back time, I can't do anything for you except let you kill me like I killed you—"

"I'm not dead," Genji interrupts sharply. The elevator door opens to the roof, and he lowers his voice slightly as they step out. "I'm right here. I've changed, but all things considered, it was a change for the better. Looks like you've changed, too. That's all I want from you, Hanzo: change. Move forward. Stop dwelling on the sins of the past."

"I haven't changed at all," he hisses. "I can't — I won't reject the demon form like you did."

"I don't want you to reject your demon form, I want you not to be _the_ Demon! And you're not, you haven't been him for years. The Demon is dead, long live my asshole brother. You want to repay me for the pain and the missing body parts? Be my brother again." They've stopped right outside the elevator; Genji grabs him by the arm, drags him, unresisting, out of the way, pulls the mask off, stares at him with horribly familiar angry eyes. "I forgive you for being dumb and scared and proud of the wrong things, and not listening to me until it was too late. You, in turn, can forgive me for being an idiot and not knowing how to help you, and playing with fire until I got burned. It's over, Hanzo. It's been over for years."

Hanzo rips his arm out of Genji's grip. "The difference between me and the Demon is a _week_. Nothing more."

"That's not true and you know it. The difference is that you don't _want_ to be him anymore!"

"I'm still a monster," he growls. "I will never stop being a monster. You'll likely see me in demon form before the day is over. Are you ready for it?"

Genji doesn't recoil as expected, on the contrary, he actually seems to calm down. "Do you think I'll run away screaming when I see you change? I know it's still you, just a bit more of a jerk. Listen: I asked you to pick a side, and you did. You're here, out of your endless circle of murder, making the world a better place. You're as much of a monster as Reyes, McCree or me."

"Hey!" barks Reyes from somewhere close; Hanzo didn't even notice him. "Can you two leave the arguing for later?"

"And stop flinching whenever you see my face. I'm alive, I'm different, get used to it." Genji puts the mask back on and turns towards Reyes, who's staring them down, arms folded. "We're not arguing, we're straightening out some misunderstandings."

"You done straightening, then? Or do I have to leave you behind so you keep your fight out of my mission?"

Genji scoffs. "Please. On the Shimada scale of family disputes, this one doesn't even register."

* * *

Lúcio does, in fact, cure everyone's hangovers. Hanzo doesn't even notice at first, too busy trying to get himself together; he does register the soothing, unobtrusive music coming from the aircraft's speakers, but it's only after McCree groans loudly with relief and starts praising Lúcio's talent that Hanzo notices that the headache and nausea are gone.

"What else can you do with your music?" he asks, partially out of curiosity and partially in an attempt to distract himself.

"Small good things." Lúcio shrugs with a smile. "Make people happier, make them more energetic, heal minor wounds, cure hangovers…"

"Can you do the opposite? Make people sad or lower their energy?"

Now Lúcio frowns at him, amusingly scandalized. "I don't know. Probably. But why would I do shit like that?"

"That ain't a bad idea," drawls McCree from his seat. "Imagine if we could've gotten Talon depressed enough to sit down and give up instead of having to shoot 'em all."

Lúcio snorts and the smile returns to his face. "I guess I could try to compose something. I'm thinking… bagpipes and violin. You wanna be my test subject, McCree?"

"Fuck no."

Hanzo tunes out their laughter because it turns out he was right earlier, there's a table hidden in the floor that has just started unfolding, and Dr. Zhou, who insisted on being called Mei during the quick introduction at the end of the briefing, calls for a board game that he doesn't recognize. He's not in the mood for games, so he just watches others play, watches _Genji_ play, laughing and mocking his opponents just like he would have done years ago — maybe a bit more good-natured, a little less cruel — and the feeling of not belonging strikes him with such force that he suddenly can't stand sitting with them anymore. He escapes his seat, doing his best to avoid sudden movements and disappear without notice, and almost manages: he can feel Reyes's stare drilling a hole between his shoulder blades all the way to the cockpit. 

He spends the rest of the flight half-asleep, floating between states of consciousness to the murmur of Tracer's and Dr. Winston's voices in the background, and it feels like no time has passed at all before they reach their destination and everyone is suddenly all business, games and jokes forgotten.

Morrison concludes that the farm is abandoned after they make the first circle. ("Indiana farmboy," Reyes mutters under his breath.) Hanzo wouldn't know, it looks pretty normal to him, green fields and buildings in good condition except for one ruined shed that might have fallen to the earthquakes — and only after they make a second circle above the farm Hanzo realizes it's early afternoon, but there is no movement anywhere, not a single person, animal or machine in sight, and after they finally sit down on the driveway to the farm's main building complex, what really creeps everyone out is the silence.

"They could have evacuated," says Reyes, scratching his beard.

Morrison just shakes his head. "Look at the crops. Nobody's been here for a long time."

Dr. Winston predicts they have eighty-two minutes to do their recon and get back to the surface before the next quake hits. Timers are scrupulously set and communications tested, the scientists stay in the jet to coordinate with Zarya as their guard, and the rest of them stand in the eerie silence in front of the probably-not-a-real-farm for a moment before Morrison visibly shakes himself out of the hesitation and beelines for the collapsed shed.

"We've seen more than one hidden facility," Reyes says wryly by way of explanation. "The entrance will be in one of the service buildings. Most likely the one that's been brought down."

"Might wanna get Zarya to move the debris, unless Jack feels like gettin' some exercise," McCree drawls after they all watch Morrison pick up and throw a wooden beam easily two times his weight.

"I'd grab popcorn and watch, but we're on a timer. Go get her."

At Zarya's insistence, they move well away from the collapsed building and to the side while she walks towards it, flexing her fingers and spreading her hands slightly. For a while, nothing happens; she just stands there, head slightly tilted as if she's considering something, and then she turns and looks away from the ruin, out into the cornfield.

The grinding noise is sudden and startling. The mass of debris shifts and starts sliding towards the road, slowly gaining momentum; it reminds Hanzo of a tsunami wave, or a tongue of lava from an active volcano he once had an opportunity to watch — and he nearly jumps when it suddenly _flies out_ of the building and into the field, all at once, as if ripped out by an invisible, violent force. After the rain of debris stops falling onto the field there's a moment of silence, ever more eerie after all the noise, and then the combine harvester that was parked under the debris starts moving, too, slightly sideways, scraping several inches forward across the concrete floor.

Moments later, the huge machine launches into the air like a missile, and lands with an unearthly clangor a good hundred meters away.

"What she lacks in subtlety, she compensates in strength," murmurs Genji behind him.

Zarya turns towards them, dusts her hands off as if she just finished lifting, looks directly at Hanzo and smiles. "Told you I am strong, too," she says on her way back to the jet, clapping him on the shoulder in passing.

Tracer elbows him in the side the moment Zarya's out of earshot. "What was that? Did you get into a pissing contest with Zarya already?"

"I might have agreed to an arm wrestling challenge," he mutters, fighting a smile.

Reyes outright chortles at that and Tracer starts laughing, too; the heavy mood that had settled upon the team lifts somewhat, and several bets are immediately placed on Hanzo's ability to beat Zarya — he's not surprised about McCree, but even Tracer bets against him, and she starts laughing even harder when he calls her a traitor — but they're abruptly brought down to earth by Morrison sharply barking for focus, and Winston reminding them gravely about the clock that is ticking.

There's a visible rectangular outline in the floor where the harvester had been parked, and they stand around it for a moment in a loose semicircle.

"Sixty-eight minutes. Let's get moving," says Reyes, punching an inconspicuous button on the nearby wall.

* * *

Hanzo wakes up face down on a dusty, uneven stone floor.

He lifts himself up on his forearms and immediately regrets it, because the ground under him lurches horribly sideways and sharp pain spikes through his temple, and he has to rest his forehead against his gloved fist and breathe deeply, fighting the nausea, waiting for the world to stop spinning. After the dizziness subsides somewhat he raises his head again, much more carefully this time, and it takes him several moments of disoriented blinking to understand that his eyes are open, but he can't see anything. Either it's completely dark, or he's gone blind. He grits his teeth, tamps down the stab of primal fear and tells himself firmly it's just darkness. _Just darkness._ His eyes simply have to get used to it.

Cautious probing reveals a sizable lump above his right ear, right on the edge of the undercut; he flinches when his fingers find broken skin and come away wet. He must have received a blow to the head and fallen down unconscious. He scrapes the foul taste off his tongue with his teeth, spits a few times, keeping his head as still as possible, and very slowly rises to his knees. The ground still feels unsteady, swimming in nauseating lurches under his legs. The darkness around him remains absolute, so he has no choice but to change, and he lets out a shaky sigh of relief when he _finally_ sees something.

Not blindness after all. Just lack of light.

He still can't see much, just vague grey contours of walls in the dark, the luminescence of his own eyes being the only source of light in the — room? Cave? He looks up, wincing from the pain: it's raw rock, but too smoothly cut for it to be natural. A man-made tunnel, then, with a distinct incline to it, about two meters wide and, by Hanzo's judgement, a little less than two meters high.

He has no idea where he is and how he ended up in this place.

Even the thought of standing up brings another wave of nausea. It's less violent than the first one, but still a clear sign that he should not attempt verticality anytime soon. He turns around on all fours instead, slowly and unsteadily because the ground just won't stop spinning, and faces a pile of rubble blocking the entire diameter of the tunnel. Judging by the position in which he woke up, the ceiling must have collapsed behind him. Was he alone? Without thinking he reaches for the toggle of the communicator, but the first attempt to speak ends in a croak and more headache-induced nausea; he pants for a while, spits out excess saliva, clears his throat. 

"Anyone alive?" he manages.

Silence. Nothing comes from his earpiece, not even static — and then the pile of rocks he's kneeling in front of suddenly lurches. He reaches for the quiver out of reflex, gags when the sudden motion sends another stab of pain through his head, and realizes he has no idea where his bow might even be. What he thought was just a pile of stones at the bottom of the cave-in moves again, rising in a shower of pebbles; McCree coughs, touches the back of his head with a hiss, looks in Hanzo's direction, flinches and groans.

"Great. I've gone to Hell."

He should come up with an adequate response, but his head hurts _so much_ and he's dizzy, and the window of opportunity closes before he manages to gather his thoughts. McCree is way too energetic for someone who was knocked out cold a moment ago; Hanzo watches him squirm, dust off his clothes, shake the sand out of his hair, and the nausea gets worse just from following the movements.

He hangs his head and closes his eyes, swallowing. Maybe if he lies down —

"I think I'm sittin' on your bow," McCree says suddenly, too loud in the stuffy darkness. Hanzo opens his eyes in alarm, just in time to get blinded by the burst of flame from a lighter, and that's when his stomach gives up completely: he lurches on all fours towards the wall and retches, half-conscious from pain. Nothing comes up, a small blessing, but he still doesn't want to collapse face down into a puddle of saliva and bile, so when the dizziness threatens to overtake him completely, he blindly pushes away from the wall, staggers back on his knees and lands on his ass on the ground.

"Shit. Sorry about that." McCree actually sounds concerned, as far as Hanzo is able to hear through the ringing in his ears. "Should've warned you. Concussion?" 

"Yes. Probably," he bites out through clenched teeth. "I heal fast. Should pass soon."

There's a moment of pause and loud rustling noises. Hanzo can feel the displacement of air — McCree must be moving. Light dances behind his tightly shut eyelids. "That does _not_ look good. Hang on, I got an emitter."

He remembers at the last moment why he shouldn't shake his head, so he makes a sound of protest instead. "No point wasting biotics. I'll be fine."

"Bullshit. If you're this concussed as a demon, your head must be fucked up bad. Pretty sure you're bleedin' from one ear, too. Shut up and lie down."

There's no way he can stop McCree and he's way too dazed to try further persuasion, so he clumsily pulls off the quiver, lowers himself to the ground, and silently prays that the world finally stops spinning. There's a clink and a pop-hiss of a biotic emitter being unsealed, a clatter of stones being brushed away, then silence.

Another sudden rustle. "Yeah, I hope you're not too attached to this bow."

Hanzo swallows and stays quiet.

"Don't die now, or Genji's gonna kill me."

"Woe is you," he mutters though his teeth.

McCree huffs. "If it makes you feel better, I lost my hat, too." He must have gotten to his feet, because now Hanzo can hear distinct footsteps through the ringing in his ears. "Comms are still dead. Something must be blockin' the retransmitters, or one died and the whole damn chain went to shit. I'm gonna see if I can find one that works. Be right back."

McCree steps right over Hanzo's prone body, but he doesn't get far. Hanzo listens to the pebbles grating under heavy boots for all of ten seconds before he hears the man stop and swear.

"Well, shit. Guess that's why we lost the comms," says McCree from not far away at all.

Hanzo opens his mouth to ask, then reconsiders, not feeling quite brave enough to risk raising his voice just yet. He gingerly turns his head to the side to look, instead. McCree's standing maybe twenty meters up the tunnel, slightly hunched so as not to bump his head against the low ceiling, and in front of him, a flat, rectangular, metallic surface takes up most of the wall. The flame of the lighter reflects weakly in what looks like matte steel; McCree knocks on it, flattens his prosthetic palm against it, fingers spread, braces himself and pushes, once, twice. Nothing.

"There's a blast door right here, locked nice and tight," he says without turning around. "Was open the last time. Goddammit."

"Check for hidden overrides." His speech isn't much more than a mumble, but it's quiet enough in the tunnel that McCree hears him anyway. For the next couple of minutes, Hanzo watches him meticulously inspect every inch of the door, the wall around it and the ground, for good measure, and come up with nothing at all.

"Seems like we're stuck here for good." McCree walks back, shielding the lighter with his palm until he's close enough to notice Hanzo is already watching. "How's your head?" Without waiting for an answer, he lowers himself to one knee, extends the lighter towards Hanzo's face and huffs. "Was goin' to check your pupils. Sure would help if you had 'em."

Hanzo considers the question. The nausea is fading, the ground he's lying on has somewhat stabilized, and he can look at the light without feeling like his head is about to split in half. "Improving. Yours?"

McCree shrugs, standing up. "Just a bit of a lump. Didn't even break skin. And they ask me why I wear a hat."

Hanzo closes his eyes again and focuses on breathing; now that the pain isn't taking all of his focus, he can almost feel the warm flow of biotics soothing his battered brain.

There's a metallic clink. "Better save the fire. Who knows how long we'll be stuck here."

In the thick silence, every sound McCree makes is uncomfortably loud. Whatever he's doing, it involves a lot of rustling and clattering stones and an occasional quiet curse, and after a couple of minutes Hanzo gets curious enough to carefully prop himself up on his elbows and look.

"What are you _doing_?" he can't help but ask when he sees McCree on his knees, digging through the rubble in the dim glow of the biotic emitter. "Wait. Are you looking for your hat?"

"Bingo," McCree replies, unfazed. "Like hell I'm leavin' it here after it probably saved my life. Also, got your bow. You're welcome."

Hanzo completely forgets he was supposed to lie still and sits up — but the emitter has done its job, because there are no more special effects from his brain or his stomach, and he can reach out and accept the bow from McCree' hands. It's not actually as bad as he had feared after McCree's ominous words earlier: the sights are a lost cause and the locking mechanism on the upper limb has snapped, but the body itself is intact, and as far as he can see in this light, so are the limbs, even if one of them is dangling loose.

McCree pauses his ambitious excavation attempts and watches Hanzo carefully fold the remaining, intact limb. "Why don't you just use a sword, like Genji? You gotta be at least as good as he is, seein' as you cut him up."

"I will never touch a sword again," he replies curtly, in a tone that hopefully conveys his unwillingness to continue the topic.

McCree shrugs, returning to his digging, and Hanzo shuffles closer to the wall and leans against it, watching him work. It takes about five minutes until McCree whoops quietly and turns around on his knees, clutching the battered hat in his hand.

"Second time in a week I have the ceiling fall down on my head," he says, attempting to restore the stetson back to its original shape. "You bring bad luck or something? Bet there's a small print in the family tradition y'all missed. Hey, where are you going?"

Hanzo gets his legs under himself, gingerly rises to one knee and waits. The pain is mostly gone and so is the nausea, and the ground finally seems stable, so he braves standing up, and experiences only a brief moment of dizziness that passes after a couple of deep breaths. "I want to see that door. Where are we, anyway?"

McCree gets up too, the hat in one hand and the biotic emitter like a weak lantern in the other, and gives him a strange look. "You don't know?"

"The last thing I remember is going down the entrance under the harvester, and doctor whatever-his-name-was, the greying one with glasses —"

"Winston."

"…doctor Winston saying we had an hour left."

McCree whistles quietly. "You really got your brain scrambled hard. You're lucky you're alive."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Hanzo mutters, cradling the bow and quiver to his chest and walking carefully forward.

There's a quiet snort behind his back. "You want a rundown, or are you just gonna sass me?"

"If you would be so kind."

McCree mutters something in Spanish that sounds distinctly unflattering. "Alright. So. Long story short, looks like the place might've been a shady research facility of some sort. Maybe the government's, who knows. Either way, it's completely empty now, stripped down to paint. No idea if it's evacuated or abandoned, but someone did a damn good job wipin' all the evidence."

Hanzo turns to look back at him. "This doesn't look like a research facility."

"That's 'cause I'm not _finished_ yet. We combed the place, found jack shit, the timer was tickin' down and we were about to give up, when we found a secret door. I swear to God, an actual hidden door like in the movies, with a bunch of tunnels behind it. We had to split —"

"Who found it?" Hanzo interrupts.

"What?"

"Who found the hidden entrance?"

"Uh— Reyes did. There was a draft where there shouldn't have been one. Does it matter? We split into teams, one for each tunnel, and Genji and Lúcio found the thing, whatever it was. We didn't get much details because the comms got real spotty, and Lúcio was talkin' with Winston about turnin' it off when we lost all contact. Wasn't much reason to keep goin' down at that point, so we agreed to get out while we still had time."

Hanzo crouches with the grace and speed of someone with advanced arthritis and deposits his burden under the wall. "I'm guessing we didn't make it."

"Nope. Either Winston was wrong and the next quake came earlier than it was supposed to, or something blew up. Could've been worse, I guess. Could've ended up on the other side of the cave-in. Or under."

Hanzo runs a hand across the smooth steel surface, dragging his claws against it, and gives it an experimental push. It doesn't budge.

"Could try punchin' through the wall on the side, in a pinch," McCree says contemplatively behind his back.

Hanzo turns around, incredulous. "What?"

McCree raises the metal arm, makes a fist. "You thought this was just for show? The door's gotta be at least five inches, though, and the wall's even thicker. Not sure I got the stamina for that."

The chuckle gets out before he can control himself.

"You sure you're not concussed anymore?" asks McCree flatly.

To be honest, he's not sure at all, but he refrains from voicing that thought. He presses his back to the door instead and lets himself slide slowly down, rests his forearms on his knees and sighs.

McCree pointedly sets the still-running emitter next to his foot before lowering himself to the ground and leaning against the wall.

After a few minutes, the emitter shuts down with a quiet click. It's so quiet that Hanzo can hear McCree breathing. The breaths are quiet and measured, but he's definitely not calm, and it occurs to Hanzo that McCree doesn't have the luxury of night vision: to him, the darkness is as absolute as it was to Hanzo in the moments after he regained consciousness. Considering that fact, he's controlling himself admirably. The only indication that he might be unsettled is the rhythmical tapping of a finger against his thigh.

McCree suddenly reaches for his collar and undoes his shirt as far as he can before reaching the upper edge of the breastplate. It is getting hot and stuffy in the tunnel; Hanzo wonders fleetingly if they're going to suffocate before abandoning the pointless thought. He inhales deeply, instead. He can smell McCree's sweat now, fresh and layered with tobacco, mingling with his own sweat and the sharp scent of drying blood. It's not as much of an unpleasant combination as he'd have expected, it's warm and alive, and as such infinitely better than the mix of stale air, dry smell of dust and sour odor of bile down the tunnel. 

The stone does not make for a comfortable seat. Hanzo shifts, trying to get rid of the gravel under his ass, and McCree turns his head to look at him, just to swear quietly and turn away again. "Feels like I'm in one of those cartoons," he says sourly, "where the light goes out and there's only white eyes blinkin' in the darkness."

"Are you _scared_ of me?" Hanzo asks, half amused, half gleeful.

McCree snorts loudly. "You wish. It's just damn weird, sittin' in the dark with glowing eyes starin' at me." 

Hanzo tongues his fang, considering, then slowly, quietly reaches for the used up emitter.

The empty can flies through the air in a long arc, hits the stone floor with a loud clang and rolls down the tunnel. McCree jumps, swears, glares in Hanzo's direction and reaches into his pocket. This time Hanzo averts his eyes in time before the flame pops up.

"I thought you wanted to conserve the fluid," he says in a neutral tone.

"Yeah, fuck you too, and your sense of humor." McCree positions the lighter on the ground, folds his arms and stretches long legs out with a grunt. "I'm done sittin' in the dark with a pair of creepy eyes for company."

"You wound me. I'm more than just a pair of pretty eyes."

McCree doesn't take the bait. After a moment of watching him glare fixedly at the opposite wall, Hanzo sighs and shifts back: there is no real need to remain a demon anymore, anyway, with the concussion healed and Torbjörn's armor having admirably done its job. Without enhanced vision the little flame lights up so little, there really is no point to using it at all.

"There, no more glowing eyes," he says, conciliatory. "You can stop wasting fuel, I'll be just as blind as you."

Now McCree does turn to look at him, eyes briefly reflecting the flame. "I got a spare, I'm good," he drawls.

Hanzo huffs at the sight of his smirk. Asshole.

Time passes. Hanzo does his best to avoid any trains of thought that come near the phrase "buried alive" and for lack of better options, he prods at his memory in hope of recovering at least a glimpse of the hour he lost. He gets absolutely nothing. For a moment he even considers the chance that McCree might be lying, but dismisses the idea quickly; they are both equally stuck here, after all, and for whatever reason, he finds himself willing to trust McCree's words. Maybe it's the concussion clouding his judgment.

He wonders if Genji got out in time, shivers, and turns away from that thought even faster.

McCree is playing with a pebble: toss-catch, toss-catch. "Sure would be nice to have a phone down here, or something," he mutters. "We're gonna die of boredom before anything else."

"If you keep talking, there's a chance we might suffocate instead. I don't think there's any ventilation in here."

"I could just shoot you," says McCree lightly. "More oxygen for me."

Hanzo shrugs, unperturbed. "Then you would not only die of boredom, but you'd be stuck with my rotting corpse."

"I dunno, I reckon you'd be about as interesting as a corpse as you are alive."

"But I would smell infinitely worse."

McCree sniffs the air pointedly. "I dunno about that either."

The delivery is flawless, McCree's voice doesn't even waver, and Hanzo knows he's conceding yet another point but he can't help himself, he snorts with quiet laughter.

When he finally gets himself under control, McCree is still staring at the opposite wall, but one corner of his mouth is curled up and yellow sparks are dancing in his eyes. He's still sweating, enough that strands of hair are beginning to stick to his forehead, and the skin in the hollow of his throat glistens wetly — Hanzo's not a demon anymore, but for a moment he imagines he can smell him again. He chews his lip. 

"Let's go out for drinks when they get us out of here," he says suddenly.

McCree freezes. The stone he's been playing with falls to the ground with a clatter. "What?" he says so incredulously that Hanzo gets an urge to snort again.

"I'm inviting you for drinks after the mission," he repeats instead, slowly and maybe just a little smug.

McCree takes a long while to process the offer. "You still concussed or something?" he demands eventually, voice wavering. "I don't like you, you don't like me, what the hell?"

"I'm not asking you to _like_ me, I'm asking you to drink with me. Your weak insults are amusing. I'm hoping you'll come up with something better next time."

"You often drink with people who insult you?" McCree stares at him as if he grew a second head.

"I drink with interesting people. You are borderline interesting."

McCree's eyebrows go up. "How much more of an ass do I need to be to stop bein' interesting?"

"The majority of interesting people I meet try to kill me at some point," says Hanzo lazily. "You have a long way to go."

McCree falls silent after that and just stares at him, expression unreadable in the flickering light. Looks like the attraction doesn't outweigh his determination to remain hostile, after all. Hanzo contains the sigh and rests his head against the cold steel surface, closing his eyes: it was worth a try.

"Listen. I, uh, appreciate the sentiment —"

Hanzo cracks one eye open.

"— but I'll pass."

"Very well," he says, closing his eyes again.

Now the awkward silence is downright oppressive. Hanzo doesn't care. He's mostly irritated at himself: he should have played his cards closer to his chest. The exchange of barbs fueled a spark he hasn't felt in a long time and made him reckless.

Or maybe he's just brain damaged. That is also a plausible explanation.

There's a rustle, then another. McCree's moving, or fidgeting. "Listen," he starts again. "I know you know I think you're hot."

Hanzo emits an affirmative hum.

"And a murderous asshole, too."

Another hum.

"…But even if you weren't a murderous asshole, I don't do this sort of stuff."

Hanzo opens his eyes to look at McCree sceptically. "You don't do what? Go out for drinks with people?"

McCree leans forward, arms on his knees, and gives him a pointed look. "Come on. Is this really about drinking?"

"It can be about drinking." Hanzo shrugs. "Or it can be about more than that."

"Exactly. Look. You know what I can do, you saw it yourself. I can't get involved with people. Especially with people who should hate my guts and instead randomly ask me out."

Hanzo frowns. "Wait. You think you… _charmed_ me?" He gets no answer, and huffs in disbelief. "A few days ago you assured me you don't accidentally charm people anymore."

"Can never be sure. You're talkin' to someone who accidentally charmed a bunch of superheroes. And a whole freakin' gang before that. And fuck knows who else."

"That's ridiculous. And why do you even worry about charming a murderous asshole?"

"Right, I forgot I'm talkin' to goddamned _yakuza_." McCree's voice drips with sarcasm. "It's because of this li'l thing called 'ethics'. 'S okay, I know you never heard of it in your life."

It's absurd. McCree's reasoning can be dismantled with basic application of logic, even while suffering from possible aftereffects of a concussion, and Hanzo prepares to do just that, spurred on by the challenge and the chance of sweet victory — and then he freezes.

"Did you hear that?" he whispers, turning his ear to the door and holding his breath, listening.

McCree stiffens and tilts his head. Seconds pass in silence — McCree shakes his head, but Hanzo makes an urgent gesture and keeps listening — and there, he hears it again, a definite echo of a sound though the solid steel door. Was that a… _roar_?

"I hear something," he says in low voice. "No idea what it is, but—"

Something hits the door with a deafening bang. In one second, Hanzo's five meters away, teeth bared and claws out. McCree jumps to his feet and moves in front of him, hand on the holster. 

Hanzo stares at his back with disbelief. "What do you think you're doing," he hisses through the fangs.

"I'm armed, you're not," says McCree sharply. "What are you gonna do, headbutt it with your tiny horns?"

Hanzo shoulders him out of the way. "I'll headbutt _you_ if you do that again."

There's another bang, and another — Hanzo drops into a crouch, snarling, and next to him McCree swears and takes aim —

A moment of silence. They both hold their breaths. There's another sound, a slow grinding of a mechanism being turned. It pauses for a second, resumes, a bit faster, then pauses again, and then the door is abruptly pulled open, leaving an opening maybe two palms wide.

Everything stops. They stare at the gap, unmoving. Five seconds. Ten. There's faint light coming through the opening now and another weird sound, a noisy shuffle, as if there's something _big_ moving right behind that door, and another, a loud snuffle that could have come from a large animal. 

Silence.

"It's okay," says a muffled female voice. "You were great. You were amazing! Everything is fine now. Shhhhh."

Was that _Mei_? Hanzo turns to look at McCree, who shakes his head urgently, puts a finger to his lips, carefully holsters his revolver, then points at Hanzo, mimics fangs with his fingers and makes an energetic "no" gesture with both hands.

Hanzo rises from the crouch, glaring, and emphatically shakes his head. McCree rolls his eyes, shrugs exaggeratedly, points at the door, points at Hanzo, pretends to wring his own neck.

Hanzo meaningfully taps a finger against his temple.

"Um. Anyone in there?"

They both turn towards the door; the light coming through the gap has become much brighter, and there's someone on the other side now, peeking through.

"Howdy, Mei," says McCree, the weird need for secrecy apparently abandoned. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes."

Mei squeals. "You're alive! Is Mr. Shimada in there as well?"

"Unfortunately. Are we good to come out, or do you need more time?"

"Um. One second." Mei's silhouette disappears. "Okay, you can come out! I hope you can open this door, because I don't think either of us can!"

Hanzo barely has time to stiffen before McCree grabs him by the elbow and leans in to whisper urgently right into his ear. "Don't make sudden movements, _don't_ ask any questions, act normal, and for the love of God, change back before they see you. I'll explain later."

He has absolutely no intention of changing back before he knows what was making those noises, so he yanks his arm out of McCree's grip, stalks forward without a word, braces himself and pushes steadily against the steel. McCree was right, the door is at least five inches thick and heavy; even in his demon form he would have trouble moving it if the hinges weren't properly oiled.

The two scientists stare at him, mouths open and eyes wide. Behind them, there's nothing but a portable light source and an empty stretch of a tunnel, absolutely nothing that could have made the noises, and yet a heavy, musky smell of a large animal hangs in the air.

"Put the fangs away, Shimada, and go grab your gear," McCree growls, squeezing past. He walks right in front of Hanzo, arms wide open, and pulls Mei into a hug. "Boy, am I glad to see you both!"

Mei beams, dimpling. "Sorry about the noise. Harold, uh," she glances at her companion, "had a bit of trouble understanding how a lock wheel works. But he got it right in the end!"

Dr. Winston makes a sour face, clears his throat and adjusts his glasses.

Hanzo resolves to grill McCree for answers as soon as possible, but in the meantime, he pulls the shift back and bows politely. "Thank you, Mei, Dr. Winston. I believe you saved our lives."

"Please, just call me Winston like everyone else." The scientist smiles somewhat nervously and fidgets with his sleeve. "I, uh — are you aware that you're bleeding? Quite heavily, as a matter of fact?"

"It's just a small head wound," Hanzo says dismissively. "You know how these tend to bleed a lot. It's already been treated."

"Go get your bow and quiver," McCree says through gritted teeth. Hanzo sighs, allows himself to be herded back through the blast door and tries not to listen to the rushed, whispered conversation behind his back.

In hindsight, a blood-covered, fanged and clawed creature emerging through the blast door could have upset the scientists a little.

* * *

Turns out they were quite close to the end of the tunnel when they got caught by the explosion. Mei and Winston manage to get through half an explanation before it devolves into an animated discussion about the device that has been found and its scientific significance, but Hanzo can figure out the rest: whoever left the machine, already dubbed a 'seismic inducer', in the abandoned facility didn't leave it unprotected, and fiddling with the controls apparently triggered timed charges that blew the whole thing up.

"Lúcio and Genji made it past the blast doors in time," says Mei, slightly out of breath. "They tried to warn other groups but comms were completely dead — we think something was planted near the inducer to cause interference — and when nobody else showed up, Harold and I went to search in your tunnel, and Zarya and Tracer took the one Jack and Gabriel should be in. I'm so glad you're okay."

"We can only hope that the inducer was an abandoned prototype," Dr. Winston concludes grimly.

The hidden entrance really is straight out of a movie, just as McCree had described. They exit through a hole in the wall behind a moving shelf full of assorted laboratory equipment, but Hanzo doesn't get much time to admire it, because the group gathered outside jumps off the empty desks and erupts in cheers, McCree gets pulled into several hugs, and even Hanzo receives a solid pat on the back from someone before freezing at the sight of Genji.

"I'm glad to see you alive, brother," says Genji, solemn and horribly awkward.

"I'm glad you're alive, too," Hanzo mutters equally awkwardly.

He's never been more grateful for an intervention when Lúcio drags him away to sit on one of the desks, worried out of the permanent sunny smile by the blood that's covering most of Hanzo's right side.

After Lúcio is finally convinced Hanzo needs no immediate attention, the whole group starts moving through empty corridors and abandoned labs, vigilant in expectation of further traps. Reyes splits them into teams again, Genji with Tracer in the lead, Hanzo and McCree guarding the rear, the rest protecting the scientists in the middle — but there are no traps, and the place is really meticulously, clinically clean, not even a scrap of paper, not a logo in sight. Hanzo would be annoyed at having his skull nearly split in half for nothing, if it wasn't for the fact that they did, according to Winston, save the region from a tectonic catastrophe.

Winston is talking animatedly, sotto voce and occasionally hushed quiet by someone when he starts forgetting himself. Hanzo elbows McCree discreetly, looks pointedly at the scientist and slows down to lag a bit more behind the main group. McCree nods and matches his pace.

"What was that in the tunnel?" Hanzo mutters under his breath. "With the pantomime? And what's the deal with Winston?"

McCree glances toward the main group before answering, equally quiet. "He's got _severe_ anger issues. Turns-into-a-huge-gorilla anger issues. He's the last person on Earth you ever want to piss off. Mei's the only one who can get to him in that state."

Hanzo looks at the scientist duo. "Are they related? Together?"

"Nah. Just friends. But Winston's friends with everyone and he only listens to Mei when he goes apeshit, so the runnin' theory is it's because Mei's a walkin' talkin' ray of sunshine."

"So that banging on the door was…"

"…A very angry gorilla tryin' to figure out how doors work. And that's why I wanted you to put away the fangs, because if Winston saw you like that before he calmed down, he'd have ripped you limb from goddamn limb."

Hanzo cuts a look at McCree. "I would have expected you to enjoy that thought."

"He'd probably go after me next, just by association," McCree replies, straight-faced. "You done with the interrogation?"

"For now."

Hanzo tries to imagine the soft-voiced scientist turning into a gorilla, doesn't quite manage, and makes a mental note to visit Mercy in the infirmary and ask about any progress she might have made experimenting with his blood.

They don't talk about the conversation in in the tunnel. Hanzo supposes he should be grateful that McCree has opted not to be a dick about it.

* * *

That evening, Hanzo doesn't manage to avoid dinner. He's directly summoned to the dining room, along with everyone else, and he quickly learns why when Morrison sits on one of the tables and clears his throat.

"I've got news about our country trip earlier today," he says. "Good and bad. The good news is that we know who almost caused Texas to crack in half. Believe it or not, it was actually a secret government research facility from the time of the Omnic War."

Morrison waits out the excited chatter and multiple shouts of 'I knew it' before continuing. "It was closed at some point, for undisclosed reasons, and I'm guessing someone misplaced the papers or wrapped them in a bit too much red tape, because the government in its endless competence eventually forgot about it. We just got a _very_ unofficial thanks for dealing with it."

"But who activated it?" Mei asks with a frown. "Surely the researchers didn't just leave it running after shutting down the facility?"

It's the first time Hanzo has seen Morrison smile. "Software problem. Two, in fact. The main generator came online when it shouldn't have, and the device's internal clock was reset due to a bug. "

"Hanlon's razor," says Winston, shaking his head. "Every time. Do we know what they were planning to use the inducer for? Wait — I _know_. How do you destroy an omnium without dropping a hydrogen bomb on it? Collapse it! And the prototype took up half of a _very_ big room, so I'm guessing they ran into portability problems —"

"I sure fucking hope they had no more prototypes," interrupts McCree.

Morrison shrugs. "They wouldn't tell us even if they did. Let's hope that if they did, they'll deal with them by themselves. So that's the good news. The bad news is that we might've gained more notoriety than is healthy for us at the moment. I would've preferred not getting the government's attention at all."

D.Va scoffs loudly. "Our cover is airtight. I had the legal team go over everything three times. Song Industries have several facilities in Texas, it was in the company's best interest to send a security team to investigate. The government can bite me."

"Officially they can't do anything, sure. But nothing stops them from acting unofficially, or passing a law that's going to blow a hole the size of your mech in your airtight legal cover."

"No point worrying about it before dinner," Reyes says with a shrug. "We'll deal with shit as it comes."

"Who knows, maybe they'll even contract Song Industries for dealin' with the rest of the devices," grins McCree.

"Yeah, and maybe McCree and Shimada won't get a ceiling drop on them the third time in a row," says Reyes, also with a grin.

To everyone's amusement, the conversation derails immediately into a playful exchange of jabs, and Hanzo lags behind others as they get up to queue for food, wondering when, exactly, 'McCree and Shimada' has become a thing.

The question bothers him enough that he waits for Reyes to finish dinner and asks him, quietly, if he has a minute to talk. Reyes gives him an assessing look but he agrees, and they end up in the kitchen, where Reyes brews black coffee and Hanzo brews tea, contemplating the best way to ask.

In the end, he settles for honesty. "Why do you keep partnering me with McCree? He's made it very obvious he doesn't approve of my recruitment."

"Chemistry," Reyes says without hesitation. "You two have it."

Hanzo's expression probably speaks for itself. "Do elaborate."

Reyes sighs and leans against the counter with the mug in his hands. "Listen. I've been in the military for many years, and I had people under my command for at least half of that. I've seen best friends who would've absolutely gotten each other killed if I stuck them together for one single mission, and sworn enemies that ran like fucking clockwork. You two clicked on the first damn day, on an improvised mission with zero planning. Before you joined, I usually had to send McCree solo unless Morrison wasn't on the op. You _bet_ I'm going to partner you two whenever I can, I don't give a shit if McCree approves. You can stab each other in the face for all I care. Just do it after the mission."

Hanzo grimaces into his mug.

"Besides, you make a good team," Reyes adds. "You have CQC, short and long range covered, you have brains, you have brawn."

The setup is obvious, but Hanzo sighs and indulges him. "And which one is supposed to be which?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Reyes grins, satisfied, then claps him on the shoulder and walks out of the kitchen.

  


[Art by questionartbox](https://questionartbox.tumblr.com/)


	5. Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Vomiting, needles, symptoms akin to a panic attack and a lot of violence.
> 
> Also, a reminder that I chose the ratings and tags for this story for a very good reason.

Now that Genji is back, Hanzo dreams of death again.

In the dream, Genji wears the electric green hair of his teenage years, even though it had long been a thing of the past when they fought. He still shouts the same words, though, spits the same defiance in Hanzo's face, and Hanzo explains with the same irritation-tinged indifference that his request is not optional.

He feels nothing but contempt when Genji pulls out the blade, and he responds by slowly unsheathing his own. The fight is short and unbalanced: even if he wasn't a better swordsman, they both know he can easily overpower any enemy with brute strength alone. He doesn't even need to use the strength. Genji's attacks are furious and sloppy, laughably easy to predict and avoid, and Hanzo methodically lands blow after blow, and when Genji slows down because of blood loss and fatigue, it's barely an effort at all to disarm him and throw him into a wall.

"Do it then, kill me, you fucking monster." Genji spits in his direction, slumped against the wall, bloodied and hateful and forever posturing, even in the face of the final defeat.

"I will if you do not submit," says Hanzo calmly. He's standing far enough that Genji's spittle can't reach him, and even if it did, it would take a lot more to unsettle him than feeble insults of a traitor. "You have been given enough chances, and the family is out of patience. You will obey, or you will die."

Genji tries to rise to his feet, weak and uncoordinated; he barely manages to get to his knees before he topples sideways again. "You are _not_ my brother," he hisses. The fight has not gone out of him yet. He may be a traitor, but he is not a coward, and this, at least, Hanzo can respect. "This is _not_ my family. I will never be one of you. Do you hear me? _Never_!"

Hanzo shrugs. "If you say so."

He raises the sword. The dragons surge through the tattoo, twine around the blade and rise, roaring and hungry, obedient instruments of his will, ready to seal the fate that befalls those who betray the Shimada clan.

The last he sees of Shimada Genji are wide, terrified eyes. 

The screaming dies quickly, but the nauseating stench of burned meat lingers. In absolute silence, Hanzo stands over the charred, unmoving body of the man who was once his brother.

His… brother.

Brother?

He blinks and takes a step back. And another. Suddenly there's something wild churning in his chest where there's only been cold calm before, thrashing, demanding release. His grip slackens; he drops the sword without noticing. He feels — _something_ —

The shift fades suddenly, for the first time in months and, for the first time since he was a child, entirely on its own.

Hanzo screams.

* * *

He wakes up hyperventilating, sobbing, drenched in sweat, with nostrils full of the smell of charred meat and a scream lodged in constricted throat. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time.

It's worse than it's been in years. Even worse than the night after _Kodomo-no-Hi_. Hanzo rests his forehead against the ceramic rim of the bowl and wishes he could die — it would be a sick sort of justice if they found him like this — but there is no reprieve, and he doesn't even pass out. Eventually, his stomach stops trying to turn itself inside out and his lungs stop spasming, and as the terror passes, the shame floods in.

This is who Shimada Hanzo really is, under all the layers: a wretch on his knees in front of a toilet bowl, crying and puking his guts out.

He cleans the mess he's made, shuddering with disgust, sheds the sweat-soaked sleeping pants and stands under the shower for long, motionless minutes, until he thinks he can bear looking into the mirror again. He doesn't look, just in case. It's three in the morning, and sleep is not an option for the rest of the night. There are two ways he usually deals with this, drinking or work, but he doesn't have a contract to focus on and he's gotten drunk last night already, the memory of the hangover is still too fresh — so he chooses the next best thing: he pulls on sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, sticks in a pair of earbuds and heads for the gym.

He's surprised to discover he's not the only person to do so in the middle of the night. Half of the gym's lights are on and Reyes is there, working out on a delt machine, with a pair of bulky headphones on his head and his eyes closed. He probably has his own demons to wrestle with, as a victim of torture and an unwilling accessory to murder — or maybe he just doesn't need to sleep anymore. Hanzo decides not to disturb him, skips the warmup and jumps straight onto the TRX.

After maybe a dozen reps, Reyes's voice filters through the music in his ears.

"Always wondered who the hell would use that thing and what for. Figures it's a training kit for ninjas."

Hanzo huffs and stops mid-exercise to turn the music off. "You should try it instead of wasting your time with machines. It trains your whole body, not just an isolated muscle group."

Reyes finishes the set with a grunt and pulls the headphones down. "I've been doing just fine with machines, thanks." He sits silent for a moment, arms resting loosely on the grips, and looks at Hanzo, expressionless. "Dreams?"

Hanzo's stomach lurches for one last time; he takes a deep breath, focuses on the exercise. "Yes," he says simply. Reyes nods, mouth twisting in an unpleasant grimace, and goes back to his workout.

They stop talking, but neither of them puts the music back on. Working out in silence, to the sound of his breath and the rhythmical clangs of Reyes's machine, calms Hanzo down more than the music did; when it's time for a break, he pulls the earbuds out completely, drops them to the floor, rests his forehead against the support beam and closes his eyes.

"Do you remember?" The question comes out of nowhere; he doesn't even know why he asked.

Reyes understands, of course. "Not much. Bits and pieces. You?"

"Everything."

"That sucks."

Hanzo huffs: it's a good, succinct summary. "Yes."

Another long moment of silence. "I'd ask if you want to talk about it, but I'm not a damn shrink."

"Not really, no."

"Good." Reyes stands up abruptly and wipes his face with a towel. "All right. Convince me that this whole TRX thing isn't bullshit."

By the time Reyes begrudgingly allows that there may be some merit to suspension training, it's past five, they're both sweaty and tired, and the echoes of the dream have finally faded enough that Hanzo stops feeling like he's one misstep away from madness.

There's a tiny dry sauna at the back of the gym. After they step out of their respective showers, Hanzo glances towards it and hesitates: the sauna barely fits two people, Reyes is a huge man, and Hanzo's not entirely comfortable with the thought of remaining in such close proximity with a small mountain of sweaty naked muscle who is also, somehow, becoming his good friend. Reyes resolves the problem by noticing Hanzo's hesitation, wrinkling his nose and declaring he's got no patience for marinating in sweat anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, Hanzo emerges from the sauna, feeling a bit like he's gone through a stint in purgatory and came out alive on the other side. He's even able to think about Genji again without his mind folding in on itself.

His debt to Reyes doesn't look like it's going to stop growing anytime soon. Hanzo doesn't like debts. He's already got one he'll carry for the rest of his life.

* * *

Hanzo doesn't mean to fall asleep in the common area. He sits there with a coffee, waiting for the breakfast to arrive, but the deep leather armchair is comfortable and the morning is cloudy for once, with no sun to keep him awake; his eyes close once, twice, before he finally gives in, puts the mug away and lets himself doze for just a moment.

He wakes an undetermined amount of time later with a crick in his neck, to the sound of a phone camera going off.

"Oh crap, he woke up, now he's gonna kill me."

It's Tracer, talking in a stage whisper clearly meant for him to hear.

Hanzo relaxes automatically tensed muscles. "You're out of reach," he mumbles, blearily rubs his eyes and stiffens in surprise — he could understand Tracer sneaking up on him in his sleep, she's quick and nimble and can be quiet if needed, but there are no less than three pairs of eyes looking at him now. There's Tracer with the phone in her hands, yes, but behind her, on the sofas, there's also D.Va and McCree, the former grinning, the latter staring at him like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

Did he really just sleep through three people moving in close proximity? It's almost like his subconscious finally gave up on trying to keep him alive.

He only remembers to control his expression when he sees Tracer's smile falter and her eyes widen in alarm. He wipes the dismay off his face, clears his throat and straightens, rolling his shoulders and flexing his neck, and waits for Tracer to relax again before lunging for her phone.

He's slow this morning — if it's even morning still — and she cheats; a blue flash and she's on the other side of the coffee table, laughing.

"I won't post this anywhere, don't worry," she says, grinning. "But I'm totally gonna keep it for when I need to blackmail you. Big scary assassin snuggled in a chair, having a nap like a grandpa. It's precious."

Hanzo glares, standing up. "I didn't sleep well last night," he says coolly, collects his cold coffee and leaves her with the obvious conclusion of that statement, spitefully hoping it will make her feel at least a bit guilty.

The wall clock in the kitchen reads nine in the morning. Hanzo has slept way longer into the day in the past, and maybe he shouldn't be surprised he crashed after the events of the night and the gym, but never in his adult life has he slept like a log in the presence of other people. There's a tiny voice in the back of his head whispering that he hasn't really had the opportunity to; he ignores it — he has never been in the habit of feeling sorry for himself and he's not going to start now — and concentrates on making coffee and toast, instead.

When he walks back out to the balcony with a mug, a plate and a nattō-smeared toast already between his teeth, both D.Va and Tracer have disappeared and only McCree remains, slouching on the sofa and looking at something on his phone with a crooked smile that reminds Hanzo of the conversation in the collapsed tunnel. He very nearly turns on the spot to escape to the quiet safety of the mess, because he had thought about avoiding McCree for a couple of days and giving himself time for the interest to fade — but McCree has already looked up from the phone and saw Hanzo standing there, and now the only way is forward. He will not be seen retreating.

McCree's smile disappears as Hanzo makes his way to the armchair; it makes him feel strangely torn between satisfaction and regret. Neither of them says anything, but the suddenly charged air wakes him up better than any coffee could.

The first time he notices McCree looking, he thinks it's because of the nattō, mild and not particularly smelly, but probably still strong enough to offend American noses. The second time McCree's eyes flick quickly back to his phone, though, Hanzo puts his own phone down, wraps both palms around the coffee mug, leans back in the armchair and waits.

McCree glances in his direction twenty seconds later and blinks when he realizes he's been caught.

"Changed your mind?" Hanzo inquires politely.

McCree huffs. "Nope. You just look like shit."

Hanzo considers talking about the nightmare for exactly one second before rejecting the idea with an internal shudder. He crosses one leg over the other and assumes a mildly bored expression. "And that's why you can't keep your eyes off me?"

McCree's outraged sputter improves his mood instantly. "I— You're so full of shit it's a wonder your eyes ain't brown. Excuse me for bein' worried about your head."

A small, giddy spark reignites in Hanzo's chest. "My head is fine, and you could have just asked," he points out calmly.

McCree doesn't respond or look in his direction anymore, and there's a set to his jaw now that makes Hanzo want to push.

"Never got to finishing our conversation, by the way," he says. "Your reasons for avoiding relationships are shit."

McCree sighs, picks up his coffee, looks up as if praying for patience. "I told you, I know you don't get ethics—"

Hanzo snorts, disdainful. "I understand the ethical aspects, it's you who doesn't understand logic. First of all: let's assume you accidentally charmed me. Shouldn't that make me keen to do what you want?"

McCree doesn't say anything, but his eyes narrow slightly and his mouth thins; it would be a dangerous expression in any other circumstances or to any other person, but Hanzo's met and killed too many dangerous people to care.

"You’re worried that you made me interested because of your own interest, correct?" he continues, unperturbed. "But if I'm under your influence, and if you want me to _stop_ being interested, then shouldn't I have done so by now?"

"It doesn't work like that," says McCree through his teeth. "Stop tryin' to fuck with my head."

Hanzo uncrosses his legs and leans forward, strangely invested now. "I'm serious. You seem to think I'm charmed, so why don't you just tell me to go away and see if it works?"

McCree rolls his eyes. "Okay. Go away," he deadpans.

"No," says Hanzo with satisfaction, leaning back. "See? Your paranoia is well-intentioned, but unfounded. How long does your charm last, anyway?"

"Depends. That Talon lady probably sobered up after five minutes. Can take hours or days if I work on someone long enough."

"More or less proportional to the time of exposure, then. So even if I had somehow been under the influence yesterday, I would have been clear today morning. QED."

McCree takes a long drink of coffee, closes his eyes for moment, breathes in and out, like he's trying to calm himself. "You really want to get whammied into suckin' my dick in an alley, don't you," he says finally.

Hanzo snorts, hurriedly purging the mental image his brain immediately conjured. "Is that the height of your fantasies? I expected more of you."

He doesn't get a response for a while, long enough that he huffs, falls back into the armchair and brings his own coffee to his lips. 

Finally, McCree puts the mug back on the table and turns towards him, one arm on the back of the sofa, body language calm again, expression neutral. "What's it to you, anyway? You can get laid in five minutes in the first bar you pick, the way you look. What's got you fixated on me?"

Hanzo sighs, exasperated. "And you accuse _me_ of being an asshole. Get over yourself, I'm merely giving you proof that your problems are imaginary. You're voluntarily making yourself miserable for no logical reason. Are you planning to spend your whole life afraid of your skills?"

"What makes you think I'm miserable? Maybe I like bein' by my lonesome," drawls McCree. "Free as a bird. No obligations, no expectations. Seems to me someone's projecting here, partner, and it sure as hell ain't me."

Hanzo takes a breath to answer — and releases it slowly, having found no words. A sudden, bitter taste of adrenaline burns the back of his tongue and heat slowly creeps onto his face, because yes, McCree's right. Hanzo _is_ projecting. He's been projecting his own problems onto McCree in the most obvious and humiliating of ways, and he hasn't noticed until it was too late, and now the last person he'd like to embarrass himself in front of is looking at him with coolly assessing eyes.

At least he didn't spend half his life keeping up appearances for nothing. He collects himself quickly, grits his teeth, wills his pulse to calm down and his voice to stay even. "You're right," he says curtly, picking up his phone; he'd do anything to leave now, but he's already shamed himself enough, and fleeing is not an option. "I apologize."

He steels himself for the well-earned mockery, but he's spared that, at least.

"'S alright," McCree mutters after a while.

Hanzo stares at the news feed, doing his best to convert the burn of humiliation into anger. It's all Tracer's fault, he tells himself, for that stupid conversation about interesting people they had the night before, but the redirection of blame doesn't really work when he's fully aware what he's doing. He can't even muster a glare when Tracer appears above them shortly after, bouncing down the stairs like a kid fed too much sugar, a scrabble box under her arm.

She points a finger in his direction when she notices him looking. "Rematch, motherfucker. Or I publish the photos."

* * *

Tracer insists that McCree joins the game and succeeds by means of pleading and outrageous bribery, and as a result, Hanzo doesn't play well. In fact, he plays badly enough that not only he lets Tracer gain an advantage, but he starts losing to McCree, and only when he realizes that he grits his teeth, forcibly refocuses his mind and starts paying attention to what he's doing with his letters. He doesn't win the round, it's too late for that, but at least he avoids the ultimate indignity of losing to the cowboy.

"Don't think you woke up yet," says Tracer, frowning at the scoring sheet. "That game was shite and doesn't count. Go get some more coffee before the next round, or something?"

Hanzo winces internally: he'd really prefer to get out of here instead and find a nice, quiet place to nurse the remains of his dignity. "You won. That was the point of the rematch, wasn't it?"

"It's not a proper rematch if you're half asleep. Come on, let's play another game, and this time don't half-arse it. Or, you know," she pointedly pats the pocket of her hoodie, "I still have those photos."

"It's unwise to blackmail an assassin," Hanzo says in his best threatening tone.

All it gets him is a bright smile. "Eh. The assassin's slow ass would have to catch me to do anything about it."

McCree, whose existence Hanzo has been doing his best to ignore, sighs and rises from his seat. "I'm up for another one, but I gotta piss and grab a coffee. Be right back."

"Sure," says Tracer, and as soon as McCree is through the door, she suddenly slides closer to the end of the sofa and leans towards Hanzo. "Did you guys fight or something?" she whispers. "Feels like I'm sitting at a funeral."

Hanzo makes a grave mistake of hesitating for a split second before deciding he's been exposed enough for one day. "I just didn't sleep well," he hastens to respond, but Tracer has already noticed, because of course she did, and now she's looking at him with suspicion that could be amusing, were he not in a seriously foul mood. _Please leave me alone_ , he thinks exasperatedly instead, to no avail of course, because fate has apparently decided that Shimada Hanzo is due for a really shitty day.

"You don't have a thing for McCree, do you?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"Absolutely not," he snaps and takes a deep breath, brings his tone down and back to somewhat civil. "We had a brief difference of opinion about his powers, that's all."

She's still looking at him like she's searching for a hole in a lie; for some reason, her scrutiny is more difficult to withstand than some of the interrogations he's been through in the past. Hanzo clenches his teeth and fidgets with his phone just to have something to center himself on.

"…It's the other way around, if anything," he finally adds, despite his better judgement, just to make her stop _staring_.

"Okay," she says slowly, biting her cheek in an obvious attempt not to smile. "I'm just gonna say this: if you continue not having a thing for him, please remember he's more dangerous than he looks, okay?"

Hanzo can't be bothered to argue with her assumptions; he just shrugs. "So am I."

"No, I'm serious, love. I mean, he's a nice enough guy, but—"

"You're talking to someone who assassinated a man twenty-four hours before meeting you," Hanzo says flatly. "In a very cruel way, I might add. Even if something were to happen, it's him you should worry about, not me." 

"Fine, I get it." She smirks openly now, still leaning towards him, elbows on her knees. "You're a big manly man who's afraid of no nutters. So, wanna talk about how much you don't have a thing for him?"

Hanzo gives her his best murderous glare. It has as little effect on her as everything else. "No."

"Don't wanna talk about that sexy rugged aesthetic he's got going on?" she grins.

Hanzo feels the corners of his mouth curl up; he pushes the smile down with some effort. "You're a lesbian, you're not supposed to appreciate that."

Tracer blows a raspberry, reaches out, punches him lightly in the arm. "I'm a lesbian, not blind. You're both objectively hot to anyone with eyes."

"I'm much hotter, though," he says, unable to resist the opening.

Tracer starts laughing. It's infectious enough that Hanzo can't contain the smile anymore; it's small and at least fifty percent exasperation, but it's a smile nonetheless. He lets go of the phone he's been clutching, falls back into the armchair, feels the tension slowly seep out of his muscles.

"What's the joke?" D.Va says briskly from the direction of the kitchen. "I could use a laugh. Incidentally, does anyone want to take over as a CEO? One-time limited offer, going fast."

Tracer scoots over to her previous spot and turns towards D.Va. "We're talking about McCree, can't you tell?"

"Yeah, he's pretty much a joke," D.Va agrees, straight-faced.

"I resent that," says McCree flatly, trailing behind her with two steaming mugs in his hands.

Hanzo stiffens a little when D.Va walks over and unceremoniously perches on the arm of his chair. "Hey, Hanzo, wanna be the CEO?" she asks, opening a can of an energy drink. "You already kinda look like one in this chair. Just need to put you in a suit and you'll make a a fine replacement."

"I'll pass, thank you."

McCree walks past, puts one of the mugs on the table in front of the chair without a word and drops back onto his spot on the sofa.

"Hey Hana, wanna join us?" Tracer asks, tossing McCree the bag of tiles. "Hanzo's a monster at scrabble. When he's not asleep, that is."

"Too slow for me, my brain will blow up if I sit here for an hour watching you all shuffle letters. That, and I have a mech to fix."

"And a meeting to attend," Athena adds serenely from above.

"And an AI to ignore, I forgot." She pats Hanzo's shoulder and jumps off her seat. "Let me know if you change your mind about being a CEO."

Hanzo watches her head for the stairs, amused, then realizes the mug McCree brought is still in front of the chair. "You forgot your coffee," he calls.

"Not mine!"

"That's for you," McCree says without looking away from his tiles. "Drink at your own risk."

It's a peace offering. Hanzo knows one when he sees it. For a long, spite-filled moment he wants to reject it, but he's not really angry anymore, the shame doesn't sting quite so much, and there's no point burning bridges he might want to cross tomorrow.

"Did you spit in it?" he asks instead, picking up the mug.

"Yep. Didn't hock a loogie, though, so you're good."

Tracer makes a gagging noise. "What the fuck? Are you five?!"

Hanzo takes a sip of the coffee, straight-faced. He's rewarded by the corner of McCree's mouth twitching up.

* * *

Hanzo drinks the coffee, wins the second round easily and excuses himself, not swayed by further attempts at blackmail, because he has a job to do today.

The infirmary is open, but empty. A bit of looking around yields a closed door at the end of the corridor, with a handwritten sign in big, black letters that reads:

**LABORATORY**

**WARNING: STERILE ENVIRONMENT**

**KNOCK, DO NOT ENTER**

**I HAVE VERY LARGE NEEDLES**

Hanzo obediently knocks, three sharp raps, and steps well away just in case.

"Moment!" Mercy yells from afar. There's a loud hiss somewhere behind the door, similar to the sound of a pressurizing airlock. The doctor emerges shortly after, in casual clothes but with visible goggle marks on her face, in a cloud of disinfectant smell strong enough that it makes Hanzo's nose itch and his eyes water.

She perks up visibly at his sight. "Hanzo! Excellent. I was going to try and find you today. But first: what brings you here? Are you unwell?"

"Winston." Hanzo rubs his nose, wincing, and follows her into the main infirmary, sits in the patient's chair at her desk. "I was told about his condition. I know that he suffers from involuntary anger-related transformations. Have you been able to get anything from my blood?"

Mercy starts nodding before he's finished. "This is actually what I wanted to talk to you about," she says. "I'm afraid I haven't achieved much so far. Coffee?"

"Just had one, thank you."

She walks over to the small coffee machine, pops a capsule in, sticks a small, handmade-looking ceramic cup underneath. "I hit a wall," she says, frowning. "Whatever it is that's causing your emotional changes, a single sample isn't enough to even hint at the mechanism underneath. I would need several, preferably taken in different stages of advancement. It's asking a lot, I know, and I'll understand if you're not up for it…"

"How bad is it for him?" he interrupts.

Mercy purses her lips, watching the coffee trickle into the cup. "I can't tell you much, of course, because of patient-doctor confidentiality. I can say that it's detrimental to his health, and that there are some very serious implications, should the transformations happen too often."

Hanzo mechanically picks up a pen, clicks it on and off, thinking. "And how long would you need me to stay shifted to get enough data?"

"I understand that you suffer from trauma related to prolonged exposure to the effect," she says carefully. "I wouldn't want to trigger any negative effects."

He shrugs. "I won't be comfortable with it, because the whiplash will be… considerable, but I'll manage a day or two."

Mercy frowns over the rim of her cup. "Whiplash?"

"There's a rebound, so to speak. The deeper the emotional dampening, the stronger the reverse effect afterwards. You already saw it after the hijacked tank."

"Fascinating!" she exclaims, then visibly reins herself in, clears her throat. "I'm sorry, I imagine it can be very unpleasant. But this is an extremely important piece of information! It could be crucial to understanding the mechanism. There is a way we could continuously monitor it, a minimally invasive procedure — of course only if you feel comfortable with it — I'm sorry." She puts the coffee down and vigorously rubs her face. "Please excuse my behavior. I've been frustrated with lack of progress for too long."

Hanzo takes a deep breath, considers. The thought of staying shifted with Genji around is… unsettling, to say the least, enough that he barely catches himself in time to put the pen away before he snaps it in half. But on the other hand there's Winston with his soft voice, childish enthusiasm and napkins covered in equations. There's the vivid memory of the noises in the tunnels, McCree's frantic warnings, Mei's careful, soothing tone.

It's his brief discomfort against someone's life. A distinctly imbalanced comparison.

"What's the procedure?"

Mercy's hands fall away from her face and she sighs, picking up the coffee again. "I could administer a preprogrammed nanocolony," she says, strangely reluctant, considering her enthusiasm just moments before. "Assuming your unusual physiology doesn't interact with nanites, they will build a temporary monitoring mesh and collect data directly from your bloodstream. They usually last for a maximum of two days before expiration and data loss, but for our needs, I think a day would be more than enough." She hesitates briefly before continuing. "I must stress that I'm not informed enough to judge the mental impact it might have on you. Regardless of how useful this data could be, your own health still takes precedence."

Hanzo scoffs. "The worst scenario is that I'll get drunk afterwards. Hardly comparable to Dr Winston's problems."

"I would prefer not to push a patient into alcoholism, either," Mercy says drily.

"If I haven't succumbed to alcoholism yet, it's safe to assume I won't now."

She shakes her head immediately. "Logical fallacy, as I'm sure you're aware. But, well, you have been warned. I won't stop you if you want to do this."

The 'I don't like you enough to argue' is unsaid, but clear enough; Hanzo can't help a huff of morbid amusement.

"Let's do it," he decides, straightening. "What do you need me to do?"

True to her word, Mercy doesn't try to coddle him anymore. She brings up a small display above her desk and walks him through the procedure, all business, then leaves him with a leaflet explaining how monitoring nanostructures work, disappears in the direction of the lab and comes back ten minutes later with a surprisingly small, sealed syringe.

"This is the colony," she says, giving the syringe a little shake. The liquid oozing down its walls reminds Hanzo unpleasantly of Reaper's vaporous form. "It will take a couple of hours to establish itself and begin collecting data, and will last for a maximum of two days after that. Please don't push yourself for the sake of more data — a day should be more than enough with the sampling interval I set up. Even twelve hours will suffice, really."

Hanzo clenches his teeth instinctively, eyeing the metallic, viscous-looking substance, but surprisingly, the injection isn't any more unpleasant than a standard set of vaccinations.

"If you notice any unusual symptoms, contact me immediately," Mercy says briskly, sticking a small patch inside the crook of his elbow. "You may experience a slight soreness around the injection site, but it should fade within a few hours. Anything more than that, you have my phone number."

Hanzo stands up. "Thank you. I'll see you Sunday morning, then."

"If you want, you can pop in tomorrow morning, too, just to make sure the colony established itself without issue," she calls after him. "And, Hanzo — wait."

He stops in the door, turns around.

"Thank you," she says, her voice the warmest he's heard it so far. "I appreciate that you're doing this even though you don't have to, and despite your own discomfort. And… if you could not mention this to Winston for now, please — I'd rather not get his hopes up."

Hanzo nods and leaves the infirmary, thinking about microscopic robots settling down in his veins and trying not to imagine a phantom itch under his skin.

* * *

There's a sunny balcony with a few wooden loungers on the other side of the swimming pool on the sixty-second floor. For whatever reason, nobody seems to go there — Hanzo suspects that most simply haven't realized it's there yet — and so he hides there with his tablet and remains in the shade of a wide umbrella for the rest of the afternoon, undisturbed.

Well, he's not _hiding_ , not really, but he's still off-kilter after the bad night and the emotional rollercoaster in the morning, and he figures he's allowed to distance himself from the others for a while. He tries meditating, but his mind wanders, disobedient: he thinks about the gym encounter with Reyes, shies away from the memory of the dream, tries to refocus, only to remember that smirk of McCree's after he brought Hanzo coffee in a silent offer of cease-fire.

It was the same small, lopsided smile as the one in the tunnel, one that lost Hanzo a round of verbal sparring and resulted in an unfortunate proposition he really should have held back.

Hanzo sighs and stretches out on the lounger, forfeiting further attempts at meditation. It's not going to work. There's no clearing his mind with this restless buzzing under his skin and thoughts of attractive men crowding his head. It's been too long since he last had someone, and there's only so much he can do with his hands; in hindsight, it's not surprising he's been paying more attention to McCree than the man wants or deserves.

McCree can go fuck himself. The loneliness is not an issue, Hanzo's come to terms with it long ago, and all he realistically needs to stop giving McCree undue attention is, putting it bluntly, to get laid.

Hanzo reaches for the tablet and runs a quick search. In the heart of one of largest cities in the world, it's not hard to find what he's after.

* * *

The club is perfect for what Hanzo is looking for tonight: dark, crowded, loud and expensive enough to filter out the desperate.

He hasn't bothered dressing up. The simple black tank top shows off his assets well enough, if the looks he gets on the way to the bar are any indication. He doesn't return any of the the tentative smiles; he needs the alcohol first, to relax and to lower his standards, and even then, his favorite approach has always been to sit at the bar, stone-faced, drink and wait. Hanzo likes brave men, and only the brave and the stupid approach him if he doesn't purposefully soften his features. The stupid are easy enough to identify and send away.

At least the music is good, a pulsating, erotic bassline that sends a warm current of anticipation across his skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

The first man that dares to sit next to him skitters away after a single sideways scowl. Hanzo smirks briefly into his overpriced margarita; McCree would have been right about the five minutes to get laid, if Hanzo was a desperate man bereft of basic standards. It doesn't take long for the empty spot to his right to fill again, and this time Hanzo stiffens, glad he just swallowed, because he might have ended up with tequila up his nose at the sight of the very recognizable prosthetic arm signaling the bartender.

"I'll have what he's havin', twice," says McCree, metal thumb pointing in Hanzo's direction.

Hanzo turns his head slowly, a preemptive glare already in place. 

"Come here often?" McCree asks with a bright grin.

"What are you doing here," Hanzo hisses, more to express his annoyance than out of real curiosity — one look at McCree's red v-neck, so tight it's basically obscene, and the black jeans that aren't really any looser, is a clear enough answer to that question.

McCree turns towards Hanzo and leans against the bar, relaxed, knees wide, looking like sin itself. "Same as you, I reckon," he says lightly.

Hanzo doesn't smile. "Allow me to rephrase. The bar is big enough for us both. Why are you sitting _next to me_?"

McCree shrugs. "'Cause I saw you and I figured I owed you a drink for being an ass earlier today."

For a moment, Hanzo viciously hates McCree for the humiliating twist of hope in his gut. "And what happened to your hangups?" he asks, eyebrows raised in a display of bored indifference.

"Still in place." McCree's face turns serious. "It's just a drink, I ain't hittin' on you. I'll be out of your hair in a moment. Just…" McCree leans closer, lowers his voice. "Looked like I hit a nerve this morning, so consider it an apology. You're gonna need more booze anyway before, uh, samplin' New York's dubious pleasures."

The unwanted hope withers and dies, and Hanzo relaxes, scoffing. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you didn't hit anything. Apologies are unnecessary. I also didn't come here to chat, so," he gives McCree a meaningful look, "I'd appreciate it if you found someone else to buy drinks for."

McCree huffs, smirks again. "You got half the club droolin' after you the moment you came in, five minutes won't kill you — alright, alright, stop with the evil eye." The bartender hands him the margaritas; McCree pays, puts one in front of Hanzo, slides off the seat. "Good luck," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

"I don't need luck," Hanzo replies smugly, taking a sip.

McCree laughs and ambles unhurriedly towards the dance floor. Hanzo catches himself watching the way the black jeans hug his ass, and decidedly turns his eyes away the moment someone else jumps onto the vacated barstool.

The man turns to look at McCree, then back at Hanzo. "Not your type?" he asks with a knowing smile.

McCree chooses that moment to look back; Hanzo sends him a meaningful smirk and a cocked eyebrow before turning his attention to his new company. "I'm after something different tonight," he says calmly.

The man's eyes light up with interest. He's young, much younger than Hanzo, not dissimilar to the steward Hanzo flirted with at Sano Tatsuki’s last party and a complete opposite of McCree: blue-eyed and blonde, lean but in a very different way, with a boyish layer of fat still lingering over the muscle. He can't be older than twenty-five. Hanzo gives him a thorough once-over and sees no warning signs, no hints of poverty or ill health, no trace of despair in those glinting eyes. Just a moderately wealthy, moderately spoiled, untroubled young man looking for a good time.

They talk for a while about nothing of consequence. Hanzo downs McCree's margarita in a few gulps and accepts the offer of another drink, and buys the next round himself. The man introduces himself as James, and accepts Hanzo's equally obviously fake Akira without question. The music thrums around them, soft and sensual; Hanzo doesn't move away when James's leg brushes against his knee, smiles when a hand follows and slides up his thigh, savors the thread of arousal winding tight in his belly. Throughout the meaningless conversation, he makes it very clear what he's after. The interest in James's eyes doesn't fade.

He doesn't look around, just in case he catches another glimpse of red and black.

Three drinks later, James announces he's going out for a smoke, but he doesn't move from the chair, his thumb smoothing out the crease in Hanzo's jeans. It's not the first club Hanzo's been in over the years, and he's done his research: he knows there's an alley in the back, _that_ sort of an alley, and that there's a bouncer at the door who will let them out after a moderately-sized bribe. The alcohol and the music pulsate in his veins. He watches the hand on his thigh through half-lidded eyes, reaches out and covers it with his palm, hears a sharp little inhale, looks up in time to see James lick his lips.

"Lead the way," he says with a half-smile, slides off the chair and follows James through the strobe-streaked, sweaty dark.

There is no bouncer at the door, and that's when James makes his first and last mistake: he opens the door, smiling, and motions for Hanzo to go through.

Of course they know his preferences. Of course they would wait for him here.

Hanzo lunges out, already shifting, and ducks under the swing of the sword. Amateurs: they based the plan of attack on the assumption he would be surprised. The blade that was meant to take his head clean off gets stuck in the doorframe for a precious second, and Hanzo kicks the assailant in the sternum with the full power of the shift behind it, hard enough that he hears the sickening crack of breaking bones. The man lets go of the sword, staggers back, eyes glassy, and falls.

The alley reeks of garbage, piss and semen. The offensive smell makes Hanzo angrier than the attack itself, and that anger combines perfectly with arousal and adrenaline into a cold, purpose-filled fury. Hanzo sidesteps the second attack, easily captures the assassin's arm and steals his momentum, redirects the hooded face into the side of a dirty, sprayed trash bin, slams once, twice, lets go only when he hears the crunch and the body goes limp. The third assassin is faster, but he's still only human; Hanzo dodges the initial attack, leaps away from the second, bounds off the wall, vaults above the slash that would have cut him in half if he was any slower. He lands behind the assassin and kicks at his legs, but the man dances out of the way: he's good. Hanzo bares his teeth, drops into a low crouch, watches the blade, waiting for the next attack.

James flies out of the still open door and hits the side of the dumpster with an aborted scream. It distracts the swordsman for a crucial half a second. Just enough for Hanzo to charge, avoid the delayed, too-wide blow, and rip his throat out with a swipe of claws.

He whirls around to face the next attacker, but there isn't one. The only person moving is McCree, kicking the door shut behind him, striding towards James, effortlessly lifting him from the ground by the neck, like a puppet, and slamming him against the metal surface of the bin.

Hanzo gets to his feet and quickly inspects the bodies. The first one is still alive, staring at the sky, mouth gaping uselessly like a fish: he's slowly drowning in the blood in his lungs. A bad death. Hanzo kneels and gives him a better one, mercifully breaking his neck, and only realizes that McCree has no intention of letting James go when the strangled sounds of choking grow weak, and the banging of feet kicking against the bin gets erratic.

"Hey," he says sharply, looking up. "Put him down. I need to talk to him first."

No reply. McCree stands unmoving, and James's fingers scrabble fruitlessly against the metal hand around his throat. The kicking grows weaker; the smell of urine in the air grows stronger. Ten more seconds and it will be too late.

"Hey!" he barks again, standing up. He can't use McCree's last name, not when James is still mostly conscious. "Jesse! _Stop_!"

James falls abruptly to the floor, wheezing and coughing, spasmodically trying to catch a breath. McCree gives him a vicious kick in the ribs and turns away without a word, walks over to one of the bodies, starts rummaging in its pockets.

Hanzo stands over James, who curls up on himself against the bin, sobbing, covering his head with his hands. He makes a sight pitiful enough that even the fleeting urge to kick him too passes.

"Who are you?" Hanzo asks. No reaction. He nudges James with a foot, to no effect bar more whimpering.

"Can you get something out of him?" he asks loudly, frowning.

"No," McCree says curtly. There's a sound of the trash bin opening, a grunt and a thud.

Hanzo turns to look at McCree, surprised. "What? Why not?"

McCree drops the lid of the bin, raises his eyebrows. It's the first time Hanzo's seen his face since they parted ways at the bar, and his expression is distinctly unpleasant, not even a trace of the earlier playfulness left. "'Cause I said so, that's why," he sneers. "Lemme guess, no one ever told you 'no' before?"

Hanzo huffs. "Oh, I was told 'no' a _lot_ in my youth."

"So what, now you're compensatin'?"

Instead of replying, Hanzo narrows his eyes, looks closer. McCree's entire body radiates restrained aggression: jerky movements, clenched jaw, flaring nostrils and breath much quicker than warranted, considering the extent of his involvement in the fight. He notices Hanzo's scrutiny and turns away, stoops to unceremoniously search another corpse.

There is no reason for him to be so angry… unless he knows something Hanzo's not aware of.

James doesn't look like he's going to try to escape, but he's already successfully fooled Hanzo once, so Hanzo crouches next to him and leans in, wrinkling his nose against the stench of fear and piss. "I'm going to step away for a moment," he says calmly. "Do me a favor, stay still and don't force me to break your legs." He doesn't get a confirmation, but he wasn't expecting one; he rises, walks over to McCree, wordlessly holds the bin open to help him dump the second body inside.

"Do you know something I don't?" he asks, keeping an eye on James, voice quiet enough that he shouldn't be able to hear.

McCree doesn't move for a few moments, then he sighs heavily, looks down and briefly grinds his fist against his brow. His shoulders sag. "Nope. Just got a li'l pissed off." He drops the hand and finally turns to look at Hanzo, mouth twisted in a wry approximation of a smile. "Didn't lie about that piece of shit. Can't charm someone I really want to kill."

Hanzo hums. "I'm surprised that you care. Surprised you bothered to intervene at all, to be honest."

That gets him a flat look. "I'm not gonna watch a teammate get killed just because he's a dick."

"How did you know about the ambush?"

McCree makes a face. "Your twink rubbed me the wrong way, so I kept an eye on you. Knew somethin' was up when he ran straight into me after leadin' you out."

Something small and hot twists in Hanzo's stomach at the thought of McCree hanging around, watching him flirt, following him outside. If it hadn't turned out to be a trap, would he have stayed and watched, too?

He carefully files the mental image for later. No time for it now.

"You know these guys?" McCree asks, inclining his head towards the bin.

"My former clan. Nobody else would come after me with _swords_." Hanzo scoffs, disdainful. "A sniper would have a solid chance of killing me, but no, they're going to keep sending half-trained ninjas, because the tradition demands so. They want my head, quite literally. I guess it hasn't occurred to them yet that they can shoot me and _then_ cut it off."

McCree makes face that's somewhere between amused and disgusted. "And that chucklehead you were about to fuck?"

"No idea. He's clearly not a Shimada, which is why I asked for your assistance."

"Alright then." McCree brushes past Hanzo, walks over to James, who is still and silent now, and crouches. "Look at me, asswipe," he says coldly; all it gets him is that the man curls into a tighter ball. McCree reaches out, forces James's hands away from his face without effort. "I said, look at me, or I swear to God I will fucking gut you."

"Don't think that's going to make him more cooperative," Hanzo mutters, amused, and sets to searching the last corpse, listening to James's quick, panicked breaths with certain spiteful satisfaction.

"Good," says McCree. "Keep lookin'. Now tell me your name."

"What the hell are you?" says James shakily.

"I'll ask my mama and get back to you. Now, _your name_."

"Aaron! My name's Aaron."

There's nothing on the corpse that could be used for identification, apart from the tattoo, not even lint in the pockets of a brand new hoodie; at least the assassins weren't complete amateurs. Hanzo pulls the hoodie off, sets it away, then stands up, shoulders the body and maneuvers it into the dumpster.

"Alright, Aaron. Now, why don't you tell me why you tried to kill my ugly-faced friend over there."

"I didn't! I'm an actor, I'm just an actor, I swear. They paid me to seduce the hot Japanese dude with the piercings and the sleeve and get him to walk outside alone, so I figured, why not. That's a _lot_ of money for a bit of flirting. I didn't know what they were going to do after, I swear, I had no idea…"

"An actor, huh." McCree's voice loses some of the jaw-clenched tension. "You done any movies yet?"

"Only a bunch of extras and an ad, nothing big, but I'm getting there. I got an apprenticeship too, which is super cool but it doesn't pay much, which is why I took this gig—"

"So how did you get it? How did they hire you?"

"I found an ad on the campus, actually. There was a phone number so I called, they asked for a photo so I sent them one, and then they told me to be here on every weekend night and wait for a specific dude and do everything I could to get him out into the alley. Sounded a bit dodgy, sure, but it's _three whole months of rent_ , man. I was kinda afraid at first that they'd ask me to suck his dick or something, but honestly, dude's so hot, I would have done it anyway—"

McCree clears his throat. "Alright, I get it."

"But I gotta say," Aaron's voice drops conspiratorially, "I didn't expect the whole devil thing. Is that, like, a costume or does he really turn into a devil? 'Cause he's still kinda hot, the way he's looking at me now, even with the eyes. Do you think it's weird I think he's hot? Because _your_ eyes, sorry, man, not hot at all—"

"Alright, shut up now," McCree interrupts, and Aaron closes his mouth mid-sentence with an audible clack of teeth. "Listen, Aaron. I'm gonna need you to do your best to forget us both, and no talkin' about anything that happened here, not even to your friends or family. And no more dodgy ads, understand?"

"Absolutely no more dodgy ads," Aaron agrees fervently.

"Get out of here, then, and go home."

Aaron scrambles to his feet. Hanzo almost feels bad at the sight of the red, angry bruises blooming across his throat.

"And wear a turtleneck or somethin'," McCree mutters, standing up as well.

"A turtleneck, sure." Aaron looks at Hanzo, smiles awkwardly and waves. "Sorry, dude. Totally would've done it if they weren't waiting for you."

"It's fine," says Hanzo, doing his level best to remain stone-faced.

"Get the hell out of there," growls McCree; Aaron hurriedly disappears behind the door, and Hanzo finally lets himself laugh.

Such an absurd situation. They hired an actor to lure him into a trap, and he was starved enough to fall for it like an idiot. He stops himself from running a hand across his face at the last moment — he's wiped off what he could, but it still smells strongly of blood. The entire alley reeks of it, in fact. Piss, semen, rot and blood, to the soundtrack of muted bass coming from the club and the ever-present noise of late night city traffic. An assassin's Friday night.

McCree shakes his head and starts picking up the scattered weapons. "Thanks for not lettin' me kill him," he says after a moment. "The kid's not bad. Would've been a shame."

" _And_ he has good taste in men," Hanzo adds with one last chuckle.

McCree dumps the swords into the bin with a clatter and folds his arms. "Speakin' of taste, didn't peg you as a cradle robber."

Hanzo shrugs, tearing his eyes away from the way the red v-neck nearly bursts. "He was an adult, interested, and interesting enough. I didn't come here looking for a relationship."

"Same kind of interesting as me? Did he insult you or somethin'?" McCree's tone is suddenly teasing, almost playful, and Hanzo can't help but wonder if McCree even _realizes_ he's flirting.

"A different kind. And speaking of interest, I feel obliged to point out that we're in an alley, behind a gay club, no less, and I still have no urge whatsoever to suck your dick." That shuts McCree up immediately, as expected, and Hanzo smirks with vindictive satisfaction. Point to him. "I'm leaving. Have fun."

"Wait a sec. You're not stayin'?"

Hanzo scoffs. "Of course not. I shouldn't have come here at all, it was foolish and sloppy. If they managed to kill me, I would have fully deserved it."

"That's kinda harsh," mutters McCree.

"Being an assassin with a lot of enemies has its disadvantages. I'll just have to stick to my hands."

He turns on his heel without waiting for a reaction, picks up the trophy hoodie and heads towards the wall at the end of the alley.

"You gonna change back or what?" McCree calls after a moment.

Hanzo puts on the hoodie, pulls the hood over his head and turns for one last time. "No. I need to stay shifted for twenty-four hours to get data for Mercy, so I might as well start now. She's looking for a cure for Winston," he clarifies at the sight of McCree's uncomprehending expression. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good luck."

"Wait. I'm comin' with you."

"No need to." Hanzo eyes the wall, jumps, climbs up. "Go and have your fun."

"I ain't lettin' you go alone, not after this." Hanzo perches on top of the wall and looks back, ready to argue, but McCree waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know you can handle assassins on your own. I'm still comin' with. Mood's spoiled anyway."

Hanzo shrugs and jumps off on the other side without a word. McCree joins him a moment after with a quiet 'oof'. Hanzo's mildly surprised his jeans survive the maneuver; he can almost hear them creaking whenever McCree moves.

"You may wanna squint or somethin'," says McCree, looking at him sceptically. "Hood or not, the glowin' eyes kinda give you away."

"I'm sure New Yorkers have seen stranger things on a Friday night." Hanzo sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking.

* * *

The walk back is as tense as it is uneventful, for at least two distinctly separate reasons.

Hanzo stays alert and he can only assume that McCree does the same, even though he walks at Hanzo's side with the exact same unhurried gait as usual, thumbs in his pockets, looking for all the world like a clubber returning home after a satisfying night out. No more attackers wait for them in any of the dark corners and alleys they pass. Hanzo does his best to stay focused despite that, but the post-fight adrenaline buzzes incessantly under his skin, and it's hard not to think about the fact that they did, inadvertently, end up going out for drinks. And after they cross into the better-lit and less smelly part of Manhattan and the likelihood of another attack drops to near-zero, it's even harder to stop himself from glancing at McCree in that unbelievable shirt and the painted-on jeans, as much as Hanzo wishes he could burn the attraction out with a vengeance.

At least he can comfort himself with the thought that McCree didn't get what he was after, either. On the heels of that thought comes the reminder that instead of pursuing his own goals, McCree hid somewhere out of sight and watched Hanzo drink, flirt and enjoy the touch of another man; Hanzo spitefully hopes he found the view inconveniently arousing, at least. Had he known that McCree was watching, he would have definitely put on a show. Oh, yes. He would have done a lot more than just an occasional encouragement towards the hands on his body.

He stops himself from imagining _that_ before the building up arousal gets too much, but it still leaves him frustrated enough that a part of him wants to repeat the proposition, push McCree harder, get past those stupid hangups of his, and capitalize on whatever it was that sent him to cruise in a night club.

On top of everything, the night is warm, way too warm for the hoodie. Hanzo's demon nose is too sensitive for his own good, he can smell himself sweating, and worse, he can smell McCree's sweat as well. To his chagrin, it's far, _far_ from unpleasant. He grits his teeth and resolves to do something about this situation as soon as he gets to his room, probably a prolonged session under the shower, the way his imagination is already running rampant — anything to take the edge off, at least.

He inhales deeply again, despite himself, and stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk when he realizes it's not only sweat that he's smelling.

McCree freezes, too, and turns towards him. "Trouble?" he asks in a low voice, casting a discreet look around.

Hanzo stares at him, speechless, because he _knows_ the scent he just caught, and even in demon form it takes a lot of effort to remain calm when not only he's hopelessly aroused, but he's just caught a distinct whiff of arousal that is decidedly not his own.

There is no one else here. It's definitely McCree, smelling of the same feverish want that's gnawing at Hanzo's insides. It has to be him, and yet he's hiding it so well there's absolutely zero indication outside of that fleeting scent. Hanzo almost thinks he hallucinated it in his horny haze, when it comes to him again, carried on a small breeze, spicy and sweet.

Having found no danger in the immediate vicinity, McCree refocuses on Hanzo and frowns. "You okay? What's up?"

"Thought I heard something," he lies and wills his legs to start moving again.

It takes a lot of effort not to gravitate closer to McCree just to savor both the scent and its implications. They're almost at the tower now, and the scratchy, stifling touch of the hoodie on his skin becomes unbearable enough that the moment the entrance is in sight, Hanzo pulls it off, balls it and throws it over the railing, towards the garage below. There's no one around to see his grey skin, anyway.

McCree doesn't comment on it. Hanzo watches him beeline for the gates and wonders if that's why he's been so quiet the whole way; he had assumed that McCree was just focusing on the risk of another ambush, but what if McCree has been having exactly the same problem as himself?

The possibility would be amusing, if it wasn't so deeply infuriating.

"Enjoyed the evening?" he can't help but ask as they stand in front of the elevator door. He tries for a neutral tone and clearly fails, because McCree gives him a suspicious squint.

"Expensive drinks, rude customers, didn't get laid," he replies casually. "Three out of ten at best, would not recommend."

Hanzo can't stop himself anymore; he looks up directly at McCree, makes eye contact. "That last problem can still be rectified."

McCree stiffens, turns his head away, watches the floor indicator. "Not interested. Sorry."

Hanzo sniffs pointedly. "I'm afraid I can _smell_ that's not true."

The elevator door opens. "Keep your goddamn nose to yourself," mutters McCree, walking in and punching the button with unnecessary force.

Even if Hanzo wasn't able to see the muscle jumping in McCree's jaw, he'd hear the sudden tension in his voice. "Amazing what a heightened sense of smell can tell you," he adds when the door closes behind them, and he smirks, because now that they're in a small, enclosed space, it's impossible to miss that McCree reeks of arousal. The heady, musky scent makes Hanzo's mouth water. "You may be a good liar, McCree, but your body is not."

McCree suddenly pushes away from the wall he's leaned against and gets all up in Hanzo's face. "Call me a liar one more time," he says through gritted teeth.

Hanzo doesn't back off. He tilts his head slightly to the side and leans forward a little, close enough that he can almost breathe on McCree's neck, and inhales deeply, savoring the spicy mixture of anger and lust with a bitter note of something that might be fear. It hits like the best of drugs, smooth and forceful, combining with his own want into a cocktail of such potency that he could easily get drunk on it. "You are a huge liar, Jesse McCree," he says with great relish, "because I can smell what's on your mind, and it's definitely not fighting—"

His back hits the wall with enough force that he nearly bites his tongue and he laughs right in McCree's face, wicked and unafraid. "What are you going to do, punch me? Go on, try. I'll even make it easier for you."

McCree visibly hesitates, fingers twisted in Hanzo's tank top. The touch burns Hanzo's skin through the fabric; he can almost, _almost_ see McCree's restraint crumbling away.

Mercy can wait for her data a little more. Hanzo licks his lips and drops the shift, all at once.

He knew it would happen, that's why he changed back, but the wild, churning mix of lust and impatience and hope still hits him like a sledgehammer. He thought it was unbearable before, but that was nothing, that was warm and muted compared to what it is now, so intense he briefly gets dizzy and he might stagger, were he not already against a wall. He gasps shamelessly and pushes against the unrelenting grip, not enough to actually discourage, but enough to end up nearly nose to nose with McCree, who's staring at him dark-eyed, furious and wanting.

"There," he says, not even trying to control his voice. McCree would have to be deaf and blind not to notice how affected he is. "No superpowers. Come on, hit me. Or are you a coward as well as a liar?"

It's about fifty-fifty on whether McCree will punch him or kiss him. He thinks he'd enjoy either option.

"God, you're such a piece of work," McCree says with what almost sounds like wonder.

"You clearly appreciate it." Hanzo glances down meaningfully, reaches out, flicks a finger against the gaudy belt buckle.

McCree lets go of Hanzo's shirt as if burned and makes an aborted gesture, like he wanted to grab Hanzo's hand and thought better of it. "Fuck you," he hisses instead.

The air between them feels so charged it nearly crackles. Hanzo imagines he can smell McCree's arousal even without the help of the shift, he's aware that his own cock is already straining against the zipper, and he reaches for his ultimate weapon: he smirks in the most obnoxious, condescending, aggravating way he can.

"Yes, I know you'd like to," he says. "If only you had the balls."

He can almost hear the moment McCree's resolve snaps — and he's hoped for it, expected it, but he's still surprised by how fast McCree moves. The last syllable still hangs in the air and there's already a mouth covering his, a body pressing him further into the wall of the elevator and hands gripping his hips, finally, _finally_ ; he grabs McCree by the hair and pushes hard into the kiss, groaning at how good it is, angry and forceful and amazing. It feels more like a fight than intimacy, but when McCree reaches up, wrenches Hanzo's hands away from his head and pushes them roughly against the wall, Hanzo thinks that this time he might not mind losing at all.

"You have no idea," McCree snarls hotly inches away from his face, "what I want to do to you. I want to fucking _wreck_ you, do you understand?"

Hanzo opens his mouth to retort.

"Shut _up_ ," McCree growls, grip tightening, and Hanzo's breath catches because there it is. 

There it is, the thin ring of faintly glowing red around each iris that starts bleeding through the whiskey-brown of McCree's eyes, creeping inwards like dark flame licking the edges of paper. Suddenly Hanzo feels the pull of the shift again, feels his teeth trying to lengthen, as if the demon inside him is straining to respond to an invisible challenge; he has to put considerable effort into keeping it in check. And if this strange red glow of McCree's eyes was supposed to intimidate him, then it's failed its purpose entirely, because it's having a very different effect — but before he can inform McCree of that verbally, his body does it for him, through a punched-out exhale and an involuntary shiver that has absolutely nothing to do with fear.

"I want to wipe that goddamn smirk off your face and fuck all the smugness and sass out of you," continues McCree, red-eyed and growling low right in Hanzo's face, knocking his wrists slightly against the wall every few words, as if for emphasis. "That's what I want. That's the _height of my fantasies_ , smartass. It's affecting you, do you finally get it now? I'm tryin' to protect your dumb ass, despite your _complete_ lack of self-preservation, because I'm tryin' to be a decent fucking person and I've never taken advantage before but I ain't no saint, so could you just please fucking _understand_ it's for your own good—"

Hanzo has heard enough: he rips his wrists out of the grip with little effort and spins them around, pushes McCree into the wall with enough force that he breaks off with a grunt, stares into the furious eyes that are now more red than amber. "No, McCree," he says with as much calm as he can muster. "If you want to keep blueballing yourself I'm not going to stop you, but don't make this about _me_. You think I need your protection? You think you can take advantage of _me_?" He snorts in McCree face, loud and offensive. "I could kill you with one hand if I had reason to think you were messing with my head."

"I keep tellin' you that you have every reason to!"

"And I have already proven that I'm not under your influence!" He gives McCree a little shake and meets no resistance, except for a fiery glare. "You can stay celibate for the rest of your life for all I care, but if I hear you claim one more time that it's for _my_ good, I swear I will punch your lights out. And," he continues, lowering his voice again, "it's funny how you think you would fuck anything out of me. I'm pretty sure I would be the one fucking the angst out of _you_."

The chest under his hands quavers in a shaky inhale, and now the glare is fixed on his mouth; Hanzo is definitely not a saint, he's never even tried to be a decent person, so he crowds McCree further against the wall, drags his head down by the hair and kisses him again.

The response is immediate, a muffled groan and eager hands on his ass that pull him closer between McCree's spread legs, and now that there's not a millimeter of space between them Hanzo can feel McCree hard against his stomach; distantly, he knows they are in a public space but he doesn't care, his head empty of thoughts other than a growl of _yes_ and _more_ , and since McCree doesn't seem to need any more encouragement to kiss him, he's free to drop his hands, pull McCree's shirt out of his jeans and splay greedy fingers on his skin.

McCree gasps against his mouth and his hips jerk forward — and that's when the lights go out.

Hanzo freezes, realizing all of a sudden that the elevator they're in has not moved at all since they entered it. McCree's fiery-red eyes shine even brighter in the faint bluish twilight of emergency lighting; he takes a loud, deep breath and holds it, his hands fall off Hanzo's body — Hanzo barely stifles a whimper of protest — and the glow of his eyes dulls and fades out, back to brown.

They both twitch when the light comes back.

"Good evening, agents," Athena says briskly from the speakers above. "I'm sorry to inform you that power circuit number five hundred and forty-seven has experienced a malfunction, resulting in a brief loss of electricity in elevator shafts eleven and twelve. On behalf of the administration of the building, I apologize for the time you were forced to spend in this elevator. I'm afraid that associated surveillance systems failed to come online following the outage and required a full restart, which resulted in an unfortunate lack of security footage between 11:20 and 11:28 PM. The cameras will be coming online shortly."

McCree sidesteps out of Hanzo's grasp and smooths out his shirt, tucks it back into his pants with jerky movements. "Thanks, Athena," he says, voice almost even. "You're a peach."

"You're welcome, Agent McCree." A pause. "I've also sent you an updated map of the building. You will find that the additional layer highlights areas subject to monitoring."

"That, uh, won't be necessary, but thanks again."

The elevator lurches and starts moving up. Hanzo turns slowly, leans against the wall and just breathes. His lips are stinging and he's excruciatingly hard; he can feel the pulse hammering wildly in his throat. He watches McCree stand directly in front of the door, facing away from Hanzo, silent and stiff.

Neither of them says anything in the short time it takes to get to the sixty-first floor, and the moment the door opens, McCree is out and walking away at the fastest pace possible that doesn't yet qualify as running.

Hanzo remains slumped against the wall, waiting for his heart rate to approach something close to normal. His legs feel like jelly. "You stopped the elevator, didn't you," he says slowly, watching McCree disappear around the corner without looking back once.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean," Athena replies primly.

Hanzo forgoes further conversation, takes a deep breath and steps out of the elevator. The door closes quietly behind him. He has no idea what to do with himself. He's burning with want but he can't, he won't chase McCree again — there's only so low he can stoop in desperation, and he's already stooped so very low — but he still feels the hands on his body and if he closes his eyes, he can still see that red glare — the frustration burns, boils, overflows, and he swears, turns and punches the elevator door. The pain doesn't help.

A small part of him wants to go and knock on McCree's door, but he knows there will be no answer, and he shudders with disgust at the very thought of degrading himself that much. There's only one other thing he can do before giving up, just as futile but at least not humiliating.

Hanzo opens the door to his room, walks across in five steps, touches Athena's icon on the terminal.

"Is it possible to give another agent access to my room?" he asks as soon as the icon unfurls, straight to the point. She has witnessed everything anyway.

"Certainly. You may set up an access list at your own discretion."

Hanzo swallows and hesitates for a second. What he's about to do is stupid and dangerous — but no more stupid and dangerous than this entire evening, and definitely not compared to what he's just done.

"Please add Jesse McCree to the access list. Effective immediately, no expiration date."

"Done," she says immediately. "Good night, Agent Shimada."

Hanzo sits on the bed, pulls off his shirt, sighs at the unrelenting hardness in his jeans. Picks up his phone. Scrolls down the list to 'McCree', types a quick message before he can change his mind.

 **>** You have access to my room now. It's up to you what you do with it.

He already knows he won't get a response and that McCree won't take the invitation, but at least he's exhausted his options. He tosses the phone away, pulls off the rest of his clothes, locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off in the shower, rough and impatient, burning with the memory of red eyes and the absolute certainty that McCree is doing the same just a few walls away.

  


  
  


Art by [BloomingCnidarians](http://bloomingcnidarians.tumblr.com/post/174353306713/mataglaps-one-mans-hero-is-absolutely-wrecking)


	6. Magnetism

Hanzo's agent's wheedling has grown insistent enough that he can no longer politely dodge the question of his current whereabouts. He doesn't intend to pick up contracts in New York, but there's a definite _yet_ at the end of that sentence; there's no point antagonizing M by denying her information she will eventually obtain on her own, especially now that assassins have picked up his scent again. They've had a long working relationship, reached the level of understanding at which she knows without asking which jobs he might object to and which ones he'll take on principle, and even if he stays with Overwatch and off the market, this kind of contact is worth cultivating.

Hanzo lounges in the armchair he's already started thinking of as his, sips lukewarm tea and carefully weighs every word of the letter. Too much information, and it could be used against him. Too little, and M will get intrigued and start sniffing around, and Overwatch's paper-thin cover won't withstand any real scrutiny.

The sound of very distinctive footsteps alerts him to McCree's presence long before the man appears in sight.

McCree stops in the door, holding a plate and his cactus-patterned mug. Hanzo realizes he's smirking, makes a half-hearted attempt to stop and fails; McCree gives him a flat stare, turns on his heel without a word and heads back inside. It's so hilariously theatrical that Hanzo has to chuckle — and then he can't help but wonder if McCree's night was anything like his own.

He had thought he wouldn't be able to sleep at all, frustrated and unbearably aroused as he was. He was wrong. The jerk-off session in the shower, combined with the post-fight adrenaline crash, unexpectedly sapped his strength and he all but stumbled to bed, barely remembering to shift before falling face first into the pillows. In the morning, anger faded into exasperation and frustration into amusement, the boiling want became pleasantly warm desire, and the second time he touched himself thinking of McCree was a complete opposite of the first: indulgent, drawn out for as long as he could last, and it left him sprawled bonelessly in the sheets, closest to blissful he's been in a long time.

There is no way they won't eventually sleep together, not after last night. This kind of tension _has_ to culminate in something incredible. All that remains is to somehow convince McCree that Hanzo's unfortunate attraction has nothing to do with his abilities… 

…And then he jumps and opens his eyes, alarmed, because there's an unexpected clink of glass way too close. This time he didn't hear the footsteps.

McCree sits down without a word, jaw set and body language radiating obstinacy. Hanzo succumbs to the temptation to poke fun at him without a second thought. "Good morning," he says pleasantly.

McCree gives him a look that speaks volumes about just how one-sided that sentiment is. "Don't go into the dining room," he says sourly. "Mercy and Winston are having a _disagreement_. I learned my lesson, I ain't stayin' anywhere near Winston when he raises his voice. Got thrown into a wall once," he adds at the sight of Hanzo's questioning expression. "Wasn't pleasant."

Hanzo huffs at the mental image. "I'm glad that you find me better company than a raging gorilla."

"Marginally, and only because you're less likely to rip my arms off. Tried it once, not really up for repeatin' the experience."

 _Wait_. Hanzo stares at McCree's prosthetic hand. "Was that —?"

McCree looks at him, follows the direction of his gaze and laughs, short and somewhat forced. "No. Hell no. That wasn't Winston."

The silence that follows is less awkward than Hanzo would have expected. No worrying noises come from the direction of the kitchen, either, which means the dispute has not yet escalated, and it's surprisingly quiet and peaceful, which means Hanzo can go back to composing his letter.

He tries. He makes an honest effort, but McCree's presence keeps tugging at his awareness, and the sharpened senses aren't helping. He can hear every creak of leather when McCree shifts, every clink of metal fingers against the handle of the mug, every time McCree blows on the tar-like substance he calls coffee and slurps it, even when he scratches his beard. He starts analyzing smells before he realizes it: a thick layer of coffee and the sweet, yeasty aroma of bagels, tobacco smoke underneath, a sharp sting of deodorant, something savory and herbal, probably soap or shampoo, a faint note of cotton intertwined with detergent — and under all of that, McCree himself, indescribable in his complexity.

Normally he would filter out these inputs the same way he instinctively blocks any background noise, to save himself from inevitable sensory overload. This time he can't. Maybe it's because it's so quiet, and maybe it's because it's McCree. The scent in his nostrils reminds him of the one he nearly got high on last night and he catches himself halfway through a deep inhale, searching for those tantalizing notes — but at least McCree doesn't notice, there are no glowers or protests, and Hanzo forcibly redirects his attention to the letter.

After he rewrites a sentence for the third time and realizes it's back to exactly what it was three iterations ago, he turns off the tablet, mildly irritated, drops it on the table with more noise than strictly necessary and picks up the teacup, watching McCree over the rim.

McCree is frowning at something on his phone, but he notices Hanzo's gaze instantly and raises his eyebrows with a flat look. Since he's apparently destroyed Hanzo's focus just by existing, Hanzo sees no reason not to take up the challenge.

"Slept well?" he inquires. He's opted for a friendly tone and he's pretty sure he's hit the mark, but McCree's expression turns disbelieving all the same.

"Are you tryin' to make _small talk_?"

Hanzo's smirk comes back unbidden at that incredulous tone. "I am merely interested in your well-being."

McCree sighs heavily and turns his attention back to the phone. "Next time you get jumped by assassins, I'm helpin' them, not you," he mutters, reaching for the coffee.

"That will at least make it slightly challenging."

McCree processes the backhanded compliment for three whole seconds, metal fingers suspended above the handle of the mug. "You always this cheerful after a triple murder?"

Hanzo is in an unusually good mood, that is true, most likely because he's finally had a night of deep, restful sleep. The demon never tosses and turns trying to fall asleep, and when he sleeps, he never dreams, and just that aspect alone is enough to threaten his resolve: it's not even been twelve hours, and he's already struggling to remember why he shouldn't stay in this form forever.

He knows he will have to shift back for Genji's sake, if nothing else. Although Genji is not his enemy anymore, so he's not in danger —

He stamps out the thought and sighs: the temptation is strong every time, and every time he starts looking for excuses, despite knowing perfectly well why it's a bad idea.

McCree shifts again with a creak of leather and clears his throat. "Your unfortunate clansmen are already in the news," he says, giving the phone a demonstrative wiggle. "I'm thinkin' maybe we should've done a better job dumpin' the bodies."

"There wasn't much more we could have done, not with those bloodstains. The assassins disabled the camera, we'll be fine." Hanzo pauses, thinking. "Unless your influence on Aaron wasn't enough, in which case…"

McCree starts shaking his head before he finishes the sentence. "Nah, we scared the shit out of the kid. I know this type. He's smart enough not to pick a fight with two supernaturals."

"Technically, I was the only supernatural in there. You were just angry."

"Yeah, that," McCree drawls, drawing out syllables. "I might've been a mite _too_ angry. Pretty sure I flashed eyes at him."

Hanzo's stomach clenches at the memory of his own reaction to those eyes. He has no idea why he was so affected; even while shifted, just recalling that moment covers his skin in goosebumps. It could have been arousal combined with the thrill of the unexpected, or it could have been something else, some kind of a side effect to McCree's ability —

"Speaking of which," he says. McCree grimaces, like he knows what's coming and doesn't like it one bit. "You never mentioned the eyes. What do they do?"

McCree hesitates visibly, jaw muscles flexing like he's biting down on the answer. "I don't know," he says finally.

Hanzo balks. "You _don't know_?"

"Yeah, I _don't know_ ," McCree parrots with a glare. "Go ask my mom if you want. I'll even give you her last known address. Maybe she'll tell you if you ask nicely, 'cause she sure as hell wasn't willin' to tell me."

Hanzo considers and discards three questions before he finds one that will give _that_ particular minefield a wide enough berth.

"Are you aware of when it happens?"

McCree sighs and deflates, cradling the coffee mug in his hands and leaning back against he sofa. "Yeah. It's a pretty distinctive feeling. And even without that it's hard to miss, 'cause folks get scared." He gives Hanzo a sidelong look. "Except for those that ain't right in the head."

Hanzo didn't expect an acknowledgment of what happened last night at all, and even less one offered out of McCree's own free will. It threatens to ruin his focus again; he firmly pushes the thrill to the back of his mind, for later. He should probably drop the topic now, were he a better man. "But you can't control it?" he asks instead.

McCree's jaw works for a while. "Nope," he replies finally. "But, far as I know, it doesn't do anything apart from freakin' people out. Just a creepy li'l reminder that my mom fucked someone or _something_ she really shouldn't have."

Now the silence is definitely awkward. It's safe to assume McCree isn't willing to continue the topic, the way he's glaring at his coffee and clenching his jaw so hard Hanzo imagines he can hear it creak. Having an uncontrollable ability is a manageable condition, Hanzo only learned to keep his demon in check after he reached puberty, but having one and not knowing what it does...

No wonder McCree is a mess. Hanzo mercifully decides not to voice that thought.

* * *

McCree leaves soon after, sullen and silent, and as if by magic, Hanzo regains the ability to focus.

Sudden inspiration strikes, and he settles on explaining that he's on an extended trip to the US for personal reasons. He drops a moderately unsubtle hint about the sexual nature of said reasons and considers for a moment the absurdity of an intercontinental booty call; it's less unlikely than it sounds, M knows he's a loner with unreasonably high standards, and she shouldn't find it too far-fetched that he'd fly halfway around the world if he found someone worthy of his attention.

As long as he keeps a low profile and doesn't get spotted in the wrong place at the wrong time, she'll assume he's holed up in a luxury penthouse somewhere, getting his brains screwed out. A good lie has to contain a grain of truth, after all: that's exactly what he would be doing right now if it wasn't for McCree's refusal to cooperate.

Now that he's able to filter the sounds that reach his brain again, it takes him several seconds to register the quiet, muffled music, and another minute to realize that it's coming from his own phone. He wastes some more time staring in surprise at the caller ID before he finally picks up.

"Hello, brother," says Genji. Over the phone his voice sounds almost normal, the metallic timbre of the artificial larynx lost in the flat, tinny range of the speaker. "How have you been?"

Hanzo makes a face at the phone. "Since when do you bother with pleasantries?"

"Strange as it may seem, I _am_ actually interested in how you're doing. Which is also why I'm calling. Would you care to meet again?"

Genji has always had impeccable timing. "That is not a good idea at the moment —"

"I know, Angela told me this morning. That's why I wanted to talk to you, actually."

"You want to talk to me when I'm shifted? _Why?_ "

However Genji might have changed over the years, he clearly didn't lose the ability to audibly roll his eyes. "I told you already, I'm not going to fly off the handle the moment I see you," he says with the exact same exasperation Hanzo's heard so many times in his life, so familiar that he has to shake off a sudden déjà vu.

"It would be a sensible reaction to seeing something that killed you. Almost," he adds begrudgingly before Genji can correct him again.

"You're forgetting that I saw you shifting on daily basis for twenty years before that." Genji sighs into the microphone, a loud, crackly gust of air. "Listen. We have about ten years of catching up to do, and the sooner we start, the sooner we'll get it over with. How about I sweeten the pot: I brought some sweets from Nepal, and I'll gladly share them with you."

Hanzo smiles despite himself: Genji used to unscrupulously exploit his sweet tooth in the past as well. "Let me guess. Nothing but fat and sugar."

"Pretty much. Angela would have a heart attack at the sight."

Genji's cheerfulness sounds a little forced to Hanzo's ears, but it's not like he has anything else to do, now that the matter of the letter is settled, and he's capable of absorbing any amount of calories as a demon; in fact, his stomach emits an impatient gurgle at the thought of the promised bribe. "Fine," he sighs.

The speed with which Genji ends the call hints strongly that he was already prepared, with the assumption that Hanzo would agree. Hanzo barely has a minute to mourn his own predictability before Genji runs up the stairs like he's on a timer and leaps over the back of the sofa for good measure, landing almost exactly in the spot McCree sat in before.

Hanzo holds his breath.

Gone is the hoodie, gone are the baggy sweatpants, and of course so is the sleek battle armor. Genji sits in front of him wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of board shorts, arms loosely around his knees, watching him closely. Gauging his reaction.

Hanzo didn't realize the extent of his injuries. He maps the cybernetic replacements to his last memory of Genji's body, or rather of what remained of it: the tracheal implant and the lower jaw he already knew about, but he didn't know it wasn't only feet that Genji lost, that his legs were synthetic to way above the knee, dark fibers of artificial muscle protected by a smooth grey shell.

( _Burns,_ his mind supplies. _Fire destroyed the soft tissue all the way to the bone, there was nothing left to salvage, they had to amputate before the necrosis spread further._ )

Genji's whole right arm is gone, too — ( _that's the one he tried to shield himself with_ ) — and replaced by the same style of prosthesis, smooth protective casings and mechanical joints. Another swath of synthetic grey material runs from the shoulder joint down his chest and side, disappearing under the tank top, separated from the skin by a thick welt of scar tissue.

"My eyes are up here," Genji says lightly, and Hanzo, pulled out of the morbid fascination, finally realizes what he's been smelling since his brother showed up.

He pointedly sniffs the air. "Really? It's not even noon."

Genji groans and straightens his legs, putting both feet on the table: _clank-clank_. "I forgot about your stupid nose. It's just a bit of liquid courage. I have a remote controlled liver anyway, I can purge it from my system in five minutes if I need to."

"That's… useful."

"Very. I can get drunk with zero consequences." Genji grins, and déjà vu strikes again. "If I only had this in my youth."

Hanzo exhales and relaxes into the chair. "You look good," he says, and he means it: considering the extent of the damage, Genji does look good, healthy, bright-eyed, muscular in places where he still has his own tissue, visibly brimming with energy. Even the cybernetics are… stylish, for lack of a better word.

Genji pretends to preen. "Of course I do. Always have, always will. A missing body part or two isn't going to change that."

Hanzo can't contain the chuckle, even though he's pretty sure he should.

"So." Genji interlocks his fingers on his stomach and Hanzo's eyes are immediately drawn to the surreality of it, the way synthetic meets flesh, both palms looking so different and yet somehow moving exactly the same way. "Let's go out this time."

That gets him to refocus again. "What? Why?"

"The weather is nice. Why not? Do you want to spend the whole day cooped up in the tower? You're a demon, not a vampire, you won't burn in the sun. Central Park is a short ride from here, enough space to find a bit of privacy and enough witnesses to ensure we don't try to kill each other again."

Hanzo straightens, baffled, and gestures at his own face. "You want me to go out like _this_? In public?"

Genji gives him a strange look. "Since when do you care?"

"This is New York, not Hanamura. People aren't used to it. I'd cause panic."

Genji lets out an exaggerated snort. "Panic? I don't think you understand the level of sheer weirdness you can encounter in this city. There's a green skinned lady working at the grocer two blocks from here. I saw a homeless dude levitate half a meter above the ground a few weeks ago. If we go out together, I'm pretty sure I'll get more attention than you. I have badass scars and shiny cybernetics, you just look like a really dedicated cosplayer."

Hanzo exhales. "Fine, not panic, then, but I'm dodging assassins, Genji." His brother's name still feels strange in his mouth: a small blasphemy. "If I start strolling around like this, everyone will know where I am within a week. I might as well send out invitations to a stabbing party."

"Don't worry, I'll defend you," Genji says, mock-comforting, and Hanzo gives him a flat glare with the strangest feeling that he should be upset at how familiar all of this is.

* * *

If Hanzo filters out the remote hum of the city and occasional loud noises of other park visitors, he can almost convince himself he's in a forest.

They got as far into the park as the summoned car would take them and as far from the trampled main routes as possible, ignored a few "keep out" signs and token fences and climbed up a small slope. The stone outcrop is perfect, sunlit and surrounded by trees from two sides, flat and large enough for both of them to sit on; Hanzo leans back on his elbows, then gives in to temptation and just lies down, arms crossed under his head, far from comfortable but suddenly strangely at peace.

"Told you it would be nice," Genji sighs to his side, setting the bag he brought along between them.

"You wanted witnesses, though, and we don't have any. You can easily kill me without anyone noticing."

"Damn, I forgot my blade," Genji says flatly. "Whatever am I going to do now?"

Hanzo smiles, tilting his face towards the sun. "Find something long and sharp, wait until I'm relaxed, drive it up the nostril or through the eye socket. Guaranteed death if you get the angle right."

Genji laughs at that, long and genuine. "I forgot how fucked up your sense of humor is in this form."

"I don't think the demon has anything to do with it," Hanzo mumbles, relaxing. Rationally, he knows they're in a small enclave in a crowded park in the middle of the city, but he's helpless to resist the smell of soil, tree bark and leaves; he's missed this, a fleeting contact with nature, a brief reprieve from civilization.

Genji shifts noisily a few times and stops moving. Hanzo wonders idly if he still has his own flesh on his back, or if it's all synthetic. Does synthetic tissue recognize the discomfort of uneven ground? How do his senses parse the inputs? If he can control his liver, what else can he do with his rebuilt body? Can he manipulate his nervous system at all?

Time passes. Hanzo feels somewhat like a sunbathing lizard: stretched out flat on a rock, immobile, absorbing the warmth with every pore of his skin. He frees one arm and reaches blindly to the side, runs his fingers through a sparse patch of grass. A few meters away, something small shuffles through the underbrush in rapid, erratic movements. A bird Hanzo doesn't recognize sings in the branches of the nearest tree, a short, repetitive, sweet warble, and another responds from afar, picking up the challenge. Someone walks down the path at the foot of their slope, but the steps don't slow down or stutter — they haven't been noticed or they've been ignored — and when Hanzo catches a faint whiff of pot on the breeze, he suddenly realizes he's hungry.

"You wanted to talk," he says, rising up on one elbow and opening the bag to peek inside.

Genji's sitting crosslegged a bit higher up the slope, eyes closed, as if he's been meditating; he emits a noncommittal hum in response. "I wanted to meet," he replies, but it sounds cagey enough that he winces without Hanzo having to point it out. "Okay, no. I wanted to show you something."

Hanzo sniffs the contents of the bag — cardamom, coconut, cashews and raisins underneath: _rava laddu_ — then pulls out one of the fragrant balls, examines it critically and bites it in half. "Well?"

Genji opens his eyes and glares half-heartedly. "In due time."

Hanzo shrugs, chewing, and lies back down: he's in no hurry to go back.

Genji inhales, loud and long, and exhales all at once. "All right," he says. There's a new, strange note in his voice, alarming enough that Hanzo sits up fully and turns — and stares in silence.

It's not a full shift. It's not even halfway, really. The markings are distorted by mottled scarring and pale red instead of the deep crimson they should be, and the horns are nothing more than tiny discolored protrusions, but it's unquestionably Genji's demon, a sight Hanzo hasn't witnessed for at least fifteen years.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "I thought you swore to never shift again."

"I did," Genji says, tapping sharp, red claws against the plating on his shin: _click-click-click-click_. "And then I met someone who helped me work through a lot of issues, including this. Took me a while, and it wasn't easy, but —" he looks up and smiles, wide, fanged and genuine "— I got there in the end. It still feels weird, but I can do it."

Hanzo hums, thinking. "You don't need to, though. Your cybernetics give you similar capabilities. Why bother?"

"Because it's still me. Hating a part of yourself is not a healthy thing."

Hanzo winces, pops the remainder of the _laddu_ in his mouth and flops down on his back. "So that's why you dragged me out here? To evangelize?"

"Not evangelize, just — " There's a sudden urgency to Genji's voice, an eagerness of someone convinced of the righteousness of their cause. "Hanzo, people could write dissertations on the love-hate relationship you have with your own form. You just saw for yourself how much Zenyatta helped me. I'm sure he could help you too. I could give you his contact details —"

"I'll pass," Hanzo says around the mouthful of sweetness, closing his eyes again.

Genji groans, frustrated; there's a shuffling noise and a rustle of the bag. " _Why_ , though? Are you happy with the place you're in right now? Because I remember you claiming you're a monster a few days ago."

"That's because I am," he mumbles.

"So, what, you're just —" Genji starts talking with his mouth full, pauses, swallows. "You're just going to go with _I'm an unredeemable monster, so I don't have to try anymore because there's no point_? That's a cheap cop-out. You're only a monster if you choose to be."

Now Hanzo groans too, covering his eyes with an arm. "Spare me the cheesy lines, please."

There's a pregnant pause. "Okay," Genji sighs finally. "I hoped to avoid it, but I'm going to pull the _you killed me_ card on you," he says, voice suddenly tightening, "because you nearly did, and you did destroy my life, and while I managed to rebuild it into something good, it still took a lot of work and a lot of pain. So at least make the effort to listen to me now, _you giant murderous asshole_."

Hanzo processes that for a moment, examining and discarding possible rebukes, but, well, the logic is irrefutable: he's done everything Genji said and more. He uncovers his face without a word, lets the arm fall onto his stomach and waits, but Genji just lets out one last angry huff and falls into an uncomfortable, tense silence.

Two _laddus_ later Hanzo starts wishing that they thought to bring something to drink. Genji's still sulking silently to the side, so he sighs, opens his eyes, squints at the bright sky. "Who's this acquaintance of yours that you want me to talk to so badly?"

"He's a Buddhist monk, in Nepal," Genji replies immediately, as if he's been waiting for the question. "Runs a temple and a refuge for people with dangerous special abilities. Dangerous to the society, that is." He huffs out a short laugh. "You'd stop calling yourself a monster so eagerly if you met some of the people he gives shelter to."

So that's where all the eagerness comes from: the unchecked enthusiasm of a fresh convert. Leave it to Genji to get himself entangled in some sort of a cult. "And what?" Hanzo sneers. "He turns them into harmless balls of fluff?"

"Hardly. I'm not harmless, am I? He just has a great talent for understanding others, and helping them understand themselves. Think of him as a mentor. He teaches people how to change the things they can change, and become at peace with the things they cannot. Stop making faces!"

"I am at peace with my demon."

"Seriously? Thinking you're a monster is not being at peace."

"I'm at peace with being a monster," Hanzo says wryly, trying not to grin and failing, because he's not _that_ delusional — it's just nice to have a bit of petty revenge by being the obnoxious brother for once.

Disappointingly, Genji ignores the bait. "All I ask is that you write to him. Preferably when you're back in human form, so you're more aware of how much of a mess you are. Treat it as a talking therapy." He pauses. "You've never talked to a therapist in your life, have you."

Hanzo responds with an exaggerated snort.

"I thought so. Remember that conversation we had a few days ago? This is what I want you to do. Not to reject your demon or _die_ , just to contact Zenyatta and stay in contact unless he breaks it off."

Hanzo exhales heavily and sits back up. "The bribe you brought wasn't nearly enough," he snaps, swiping the bag out of Genji's range. "Fine. Send me his address. I hope you don't expect me to be pleasant."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Genji lets out a long, loud sigh of obvious relief. "Let's go back, I need a drink. Not alcohol, actual drink. I don't know how you can eat more than one of those in one go."

Hanzo feels the strangest pang of regret when the markings fade back into Genji's skin, and his eyes turn from white to grey between one blink and the next.

* * *

Hanzo is, in fact, perfectly capable of devouring all the _laddus_ in the span of one hour, but he does need something to chase down the sweetness. In the car, he thinks of coffee and the very thought makes his mouth water, so he bids Genji a hasty goodbye and makes a beeline for the kitchen the moment they arrive at the tower. To his chagrin, he's by far not the only one in need of a dose of tasty caffeine: Reyes and McCree are there as well, Reyes in particular armed with a mug the size of a small bucket, and they're talking about something Hanzo doesn't really pay attention to, suddenly beset by cravings as he is.

What's worse, McCree is emptying the coffee grounds container and being excruciatingly slow about it, too busy talking to pay attention to what his hands are doing. Hanzo leans against the wall, stares at him and fights an increasing urge to walk over there, hip check him out of the way and clean the damn thing himself. He's just about to give in and do it when Morrison walks in, absentmindedly pats Reyes's shoulder in passing, drops a tablet onto the table and sits on the edge. 

"We might have a new job on our hands," he says when McCree finally shuts up and starts dealing with the coffee grounds. "Something killed three people in a club not far from here last night."

Reyes leans back against the worktop and raises his eyebrows. "Some _thing_?"

"The coroner says no weapons. Unofficially, of course. One victim had his brain literally smashed out of his skull and another had his throat ripped out. The least unusual cause of death was a broken neck."

Hanzo glances at McCree, expecting him to say something — but McCree is fully focused on replacing the container, not giving any indication that he even heard Morrison at all.

Reyes pushes away from the worktop and walks over, leaning over the tablet. "Okay, the throat thing _is_ unusual, but that's still pretty average for this city. What makes it our business?"

Morrison swipes to the next page and stabs it with a finger. "This."

"…Claws. Huh."

"Yep. The coroner swears it had to be claws. So if there's something clawed running around that's strong enough to kill three men and stealthy enough to escape unseen —"

McCree is still pretending he's suddenly gone deaf, presumably to avoid the wrath of his superiors, so Hanzo sighs internally and pointedly clears his throat. Morrison and Reyes turn towards him, perfectly and almost comically synchronized, and Hanzo wordlessly raises a hand and demonstratively wiggles his fingers.

"You gotta be kidding me," Reyes says flatly after a long moment of silence.

Hanzo shrugs. "It was my clan's annual attempt on my life. Nothing you should concern yourselves with. I apologize for the false alarm."

"And you didn't think you should maybe let us know?" Morrison asks with an edge to his voice.

"No. Why? None of you are in danger. They know I don't form emotional attachments, so they won't try to get to me through any of you, and they need my body intact or at least identifiable, so they won't use explosives." The glares don't subside, so Hanzo makes an effort to sound at least a little apologetic. "I would have put more effort into body disposal if I knew —"

Reyes interrupts him mid-sentence. "You're missing the point, boy. You're one of us now, and your wellbeing matters as much as anyone else's. You shouldn't need to fight off assassins on your own, especially one against three in back alleys."

Hanzo is pretty sure that's not the cause of Morrison's anger, at least, but he's too shocked at being called a _boy_ to point it out. In his peripheral vision, McCree has finally stopped pretending he's spaced out and his stare is burning a hole in the side of Hanzo's head. In fact, all three men are looking at him now, Reyes exasperated and Morrison glaring angrily, and it takes Hanzo an embarrassing amount of time to gather his thoughts — he's been stared down by the entire council of elders several times, and by decidedly unfriendly business partners more times than he can count, and it's never taken him so long to formulate a response.

"Am I interrupting something?" D.Va asks sweetly from the door. "Because I need coffee _immediately_ , and you look like you're about to have a showdown in the middle of my kitchen."

That saves Hanzo from having to come up with an answer, as everyone reorients themselves towards the thing they came here for in the first place, distracted by immediate bickering about who gets their fix first. There's a brief argument about the unfairness of Reyes's cavernous mug and then the catering staff starts rolling in lunch tables, and Hanzo finally gets his coffee and attempts a discreet exit amidst the chaos.

His hope is short-lived: Morrison intercepts him two steps from the door and delivers a lecture on mutual responsibilities that Hanzo has the hardest time not rolling his eyes at.

"And the next time you commit a murder — yes, I know it was self-defense — let me know, so I can try to bury the case instead of promising I'll look into it and making myself look like an idiot," Morrison finishes, now more long-suffering than angry. "You have twenty-four hours to send me a list of everyone who's actively attempting to kill you."

Hanzo swallows multiple retorts with moderate difficulty, mostly because he's genuinely curious to see what, exactly, Morrison is planning to do with that list, and finally escapes the kitchen before Reyes can catch him and deliver his own version of a dressing-down. He's still not over being called a _boy_.

Surprisingly, McCree is waiting outside with his own coffee. "Hey," he says, pushing away from the wall. "Torbjörn was looking for you."

That can only mean the armor is ready. It's moderately exciting news, because after trying out the chestpiece Hanzo considers himself tentatively converted to the concept of wearing armor, or Torbjörn's version of it at least, but more importantly because he's finally going to get his boots back. 

"Thank you," he says, heading for the elevator — he might as well go to the workshop immediately — and McCree, for some reason, falls into stride at his side. Hanzo side-eyes him warily: it has to be about the ambush again, or McCree wouldn't voluntarily seek his company.

His suspicion proves correct when McCree marches into the elevator right behind him and starts talking even before the door is fully closed.

"Why didn't you mention I was there?"

McCree doesn't look particularly angry, but Hanzo draws a blank on what his expression might mean. "I did all the killing," he replies, shrugging. "You might as well not have been there."

McCree huffs and leans against the wall. "The only reason I didn't do any killin' was that you're too damn fast."

"But you still didn't. Your contribution was minimal, I didn't see a reason to mention your presence."

"Minimal, huh?" McCree sounds amusingly offended. "Aaron would beg to differ."

"Your way of extorting information is not the only one. You'd be surprised how chatty people can get when you apply a knife to a body part they hold dear." Hanzo drums his fingers meaningfully against the mug. "Or claws, for that matter."

That gets him a look he's tempted to interpret as impressed, but McCree clearly isn't convinced enough to drop the topic; he blows at his coffee, frowning, and when the elevator door opens, he steps out after Hanzo, just to swear quietly behind his back when Hanzo stops dead in his tracks and stares.

There's a large ginger cat sitting in the corridor leading to the workshop. It looks so strikingly similar to the one that used to sometimes visit him in Nagoya — and tried to sneak past his legs into the apartment, and tripped the kitchen window alarm three times before Hanzo recalibrated the damned thing — that for a very confused second he thinks it somehow followed him here.

"That's Torb's daughter's cat. Guess she popped in to visit her old man," says McCree, stepping forward. Hanzo watches him drop into a crouch, place the mug in relative safety under the wall and extend a hand. "Howdy, cat."

The cat looks at the hand with complete lack of interest and lazily flicks its tail.

McCree points a finger at it accusingly. "Don't you dare, you bastard, or I'm never pettin' you again. C'mere."

The cat flicks its tail one more time, then stands up, slowly walks closer and thoroughly sniffs McCree's fingers.

"That's more like it," McCree murmurs when the cat finally rubs its face against his knuckles; he reaches out with the metal hand, runs it along the animal's back. "I asked Brigitte three times and I still can't remember the damn cat's name, so I just call him 'cat'. Or 'bastard', sometimes, when she's out of earshot, 'cause he sure as hell is one." He scratches the cat behind the ears and turns to look up at Hanzo, smiling. "At least he doesn't seem to mind."

The smile is so wide and completely unexpected and _dazzling_ that Hanzo can do nothing but stare blankly, at a loss to understand what happened — and then he sees the exact moment McCree realizes whom he's talking to, and the smile disappears in an instant.

"Anyway," McCree says, standing up. "Not that I don't appreciate not bein' included in that little scene, but you should've just told 'em I was there with you. Would've spared yourself the lecture, or at least split it in half."

Hanzo shrugs again. "You should have told them yourself, then. You still can, if you're feeling discredited. Lead the way, Cat."

The cat takes off towards the workshop at an unhurried trot, as if he understood the request, and Hanzo follows, firmly suppressing the urge to look back.

* * *

The first thing Hanzo sees upon entering the workshop is the weirdly-shaped pink powered armor from before, now in slightly fewer parts, and the second is Torbjörn's hairy asscrack.

He winces and looks away. Torbjörn, still bent over in a very unfortunate way and hidden halfway inside the armor, yells something in Swedish. A movement in the corner captures Hanzo's attention: there's an auburn-haired woman in dirty overalls at one of the benches, working on a large caliber weapon that, judging by the color, must belong to the mech. She yells something in response without turning away from her work, picks up a tool Hanzo doesn't recognize, raises it over her shoulder, and the tool suddenly rips itself out of her palm and flies across the workshop to land in Torbjörn's blindly outstretched hand.

Hanzo had assumed that the engineer wasn't supernaturally gifted. An entirely unfounded assumption, it seems.

"An interesting trick," he says loudly.

The woman glances at him, then does a startled double take. She looks younger than he initially assessed, tall, muscular and pretty with the sort of perky, freckly beauty that distantly reminds him of Tracer; Hanzo suppresses a smile at the way she surreptitiously wraps her fingers around the handle of a hammer. A display of fangs probably wouldn't improve the first impression.

Torbjörn grunts and extracts himself from the pink machinery. "We have an affinity with metals," he explains, beaming proudly at the girl, who joins him, wiping her hands with a rag. "Runs in the family and comes very handy in our line of work. This is Brigitte, my eldest. Hanzo, our newest recruit."

Brigitte shakes his hand with a smile that looks genuine. Despite the initial surprise, she doesn't seem to be cowed by his appearance, and any residual apprehension that might have lingered in her body language evaporates the instant Hanzo mentions the cat. Turns out the cat's name is Findus. Hanzo expected something far less pronounceable after McCree's complaint. _Americans_.

"That's Hana's," Torbjörn explains when Hanzo finally gives in to curiosity and asks about the pink powered armor. "Normal girls get cars when they graduate, but no, Song senior had to give her a freaking _mech_. Not that she was disappointed, of course, she probably even asked for it. She loves the stupid thing and crashes it or gets it shot to pieces at every blasted opportunity."

Hanzo inspects the decals and weld marks on the singed pink surface. "Someone did mention something about a mech in pieces. I'm guessing this is it."

"Bingo. I already lost count of how many times I've had to fix this thing. That girl has no common sense and less self-preservation instinct than Bree's stupid cat —"

"Hey!"

"— so I'm taking my sweet time."

Hanzo turns his head just in time to see a small wrench rise from the back bench and launch itself at Torbjörn's head; the engineer catches it, guffaws and winks. "Could've had it ready a week ago. I should be able to drag it out for another week before she breaks out the threats. Wait here, I'll go fetch your armor."

Findus jumps onto a nearby worktop and stares at Hanzo with narrowed eyes. The impulse is as strong as ever: Hanzo reaches out, fingers curled in a loose fist, and immediately receives a headbutt.

"He likes you," Brigitte smiles, sounding surprised. "He's not normally this friendly with strangers."

"Cats usually do. Dogs, on the other hand, hate me without exception," Hanzo informs her, scratching Findus under the chin, feeling the first vibrations of a purr. "I think they sense my demon form and consider it a threat. Cats either don't, or they just don't care."

Brigitte wrinkles her nose. "Pah. Dogs are dumb."

"At least a dog wouldn't try to commit suicide every time it was in my workshop," Torbjörn grumbles, emerging from the side room and dumping a bundle of grey fabric and plating onto Hanzo's hastily outstretched arms. "Assuming you went all out with that demon thing during measurements, it should hold in the field," he says, giving the bundle a last fond pat. "It's going to be snug around thighs and biceps, because I can't do magic, but it will still provide some amount of protection. I wasn't sure if you were into the whole ninja thing as much as your brother, so the lower face mask is optional."

Hanzo already knew what to expect, but the armor still seems absurdly delicate for something that's supposed to stop bullets.

"I know it feels light, but try to refrain from purposefully getting shot just to verify it works," the engineer adds wryly. "I've already had enough idiots doing that and calling it a _field test_. And here are your boots. I cut the weight down a bit and improved shock absorption — which doesn't mean you should start jumping from larger heights, by the way, just that Mercy might not have to replace your joints in the next decade. The climbing mechanism is the same as before. I'd like to meet whoever built these things. Solid work."

Hanzo opens his mouth to tell him that the designer died from Genji's blade many years ago, and catches himself at the last moment. Fortunately, Torbjörn's already distracted with his work and climbing back into the gutted pink mech; Hanzo turns quickly to avoid further traumatizing sights, says his goodbyes and leaves the workshop to the sound of well-practiced familial bickering.

He realizes Findus has followed him when he hears soft footsteps on the carpet.

"Sorry, my arms are full," he explains at the sight of an expectant look and a very friendly tail, to absolutely no effect — and then he realizes he has to put something down to be able to call the elevator anyway, so he sighs, kneels, carefully deposits his burden on the carpet and reaches out.

It's been a while since he felt the texture of cat fur under his fingers and smelled it with demon senses in full effect, and he gets lost in the sensation for a moment, to the accompaniment of satisfied purring. He didn't even know the name of the cat in Nagoya or who her owner was, and every time he pet her, he was human; he wonders if that's why her fur felt so much silkier than Findus's, well groomed but comparatively coarse, or if it was really so different, and he almost shifts back to check before he remembers he's not supposed to.

"Findus!" Brigitte calls from the workshop. Findus ignores her completely in favor of leaning against Hanzo's thigh and butting his head against Hanzo's open palm.

"You should maintain good relations with people who feed you," Hanzo chastises him quietly, scratching under his chin. "Short-sightedness leads to failure."

Brigitte yells something again, in Swedish. This time Findus stops moving, flicks an ear backwards, and turns and trots away at the clink of a ceramic dish being set down on the floor.

Hanzo can't blame him for maintaining a healthy order of priorities. In fact, he wouldn't mind lunch himself. It should be safe to return to the kitchen by now, to check whether there's anything left of the food, so he calls the elevator, gathers his things and steps inside, and only realizes that Findus came back when he sees him sat in the corridor again, head curiously tilted, a split second before the door closes.

* * *

Hanzo arrives in the kitchen seconds before Zarya and congratulates himself on the timing. He works out quite a lot these days, now that he has a lot of free time, easy access to good equipment and sleepless nights to get through, but that woman _lives_ in the gym, she's there for hours every day, and to support her incredible muscle mass she eats enough to feed a small village. There would be nothing but crumbs left if he waited even five more minutes.

She stops in the door when she sees him, and tilts her head slightly in a way that immediately reminds him of Findus. "So this is how you look when you turn into a demon," she says with a sudden bright smile. "You don't look very strong to me."

Hanzo merely raises his eyebrows: he's wearing a fitted t-shirt that wouldn't survive a full shift intact, assuming he would even succumb to the childish impulse to defend his demonic capabilities in the first place. "And you don't look like someone who launches twenty tons of steel into the air with sheer force of will," he points out instead.

That gets him a belly laugh and a clap on the back that would render a normal human breathless and knock the plate out of his hand, had he not put it away in time. "Good point. Will you arm wrestle me after food, then?"

There is no real reason to refuse, especially that after the display at the secret facility he's genuinely curious whether Zarya's strength can really match his, so after the lunch, eaten in comfortable silence, they end up sat on the opposite sides of the kitchen table. It's slightly too wide, but they both agree that the glass coffee tables on the balcony would not survive the experience, and they're just about to start when Tracer blinks into the kitchen, realizes what's happening and categorically forbids them to proceed without a larger audience.

"Come on, everyone wants to see this," she says grinning, bouncing with excitement. "We're all bored as hell, you can't deprive us of quality entertainment!"

So they wait through a mass text and multiple replies indicating varying levels of interest, and then, of course, they have to wait again for everyone to gather. Mei decides to make popcorn while they're waiting for Morrison to come back and for Mercy to emerge from her lab — _cave_ , as Winston puts it, seemingly good-natured, no sign that they had an argument in the morning — and someone produces a huge bowl of chips, and McCree shows up with a six-pack of cold beer, steadfastly refusing to divulge the source even in the face of D.Va's threats, and suddenly Hanzo finds himself in the middle of an impromptu sports viewing party.

He's been to those in the past, of course, but never as a _contestant_.

Zarya thrives under the attention, at least, all smiles and laughter and bragging. Hanzo is no shy wallflower, but he's happy to let her have the spotlight and steal one of McCree's beers instead. McCree tells him to fuck off and get his own beer, of course, but he doesn't actually try to take it back, which Hanzo decides to interpret as a gesture of goodwill.

"Brigitte's cat's name is Findus, by the way," Hanzo murmurs, leaning against the worktop next to McCree and popping the cap off the bottle with a claw. "I find it quite easy to remember."

"I know where you sleep," McCree threatens flatly without looking away from where Tracer is about to arm wrestle D.Va.

Hanzo doesn't fight the sudden grin. "I know you know," he says meaningfully.

McCree stiffens briefly at his side before taking a long drink of his beer. "I will send your assassins a calling card," he says eventually. "And I _will_ clock you in the face if you try sniffin' me again, I swear to God."

Hanzo wrinkles his nose. "I couldn't if I wanted to. Everything reeks of your beer now. And," he interrupts before McCree can retort, "as for the calling card, Genji beat you to the idea. Any half-competent assassin should know my location within a week."

He pushes away from the worktop, ignoring the incredulous "he what?!" behind his back — point to him — and goes to cheer for Tracer, who is about to lose the fight.

"Good to see Zarya happy," she whispers into his ear a while later, massaging her arm. "She loves competitions. Won a lot in the past, and then word got out that she had supernatural abilities and every jealous wanker in existence started whining about unfair advantage. They banned her, can you believe it? Her abilities have nothing to do with her strength!"

"That doesn't seem fair," Hanzo murmurs, watching as Zarya, clearly in her element, tries to talk Reyes into arm wrestling her next.

Tracer scoffs, pulls the beer out of his hand and takes a gulp. "The world isn't fair,” she says bitterly. “Overwatch got taken down, too."

There's a tone to her voice that makes Hanzo want to ask questions, to learn more about what really happened behind the scenes — now that he knows these people, it's obvious that the publicly known reason for the shutdown can't be the whole truth — but of course that's when Morrison finally shows up and Mercy comes in at his heels, and the match can finally begin.

He wins. Of course he does. Zarya may be able to lift tons of steel with her mind, but he can do it with his body. It's not a strength he earned and not a victory he deserves, and he almost feels guilty when he forces Zarya's hand down, watching the muscles strain in her arm, but she would know if he let her win, and by now Hanzo knows for sure she would be gravely offended. She doesn't seem unhappy about losing, at least; there's a glint in her eye as she requests that they switch arms, and something primal deep within him responds to that glint, puffing up and preening, and he would probably pursue it, were he less inclined towards men.

Scruple-ridden red-eyed assholes with questionable fashion sense in particular, as it seems.

McCree is still in the room, but he positioned himself somewhere strategically out of sight. Hanzo briefly regrets not being able to see or smell him, to see if the arm wrestling appeals to him as much as the display of violence did the day before, and the lapse in concentration nearly costs him the round.

If this happens in a real fight, he's really going to get himself killed. So much for Reyes's grand claims of chemistry and compatibility.

* * *

After Hanzo's victory is properly celebrated and bets are sorted out, and those who actually have something useful to do leave, the rest of the improvised party relocates to the balcony, and two well-used decks of cards appear out of thin air soon after. Hanzo has no idea who pulled out the cards, but his first suspect is Tracer with her unending love of all games, although the enthusiasm with which McCree starts shuffling the cards casts some suspicion onto him as well. Hanzo surreptitiously sniffs one of the cards when he has the chance, and yes, there's a definite hint of tobacco: McCree, then.

He knows he should excuse himself from the game when by general consensus they start playing poker. He has too much of an unfair advantage now, with the dampened emotions and blank eyes and heightened senses to pick up every subconscious tell — but he's not a good man and it's not the first time he's gambling with this kind of an advantage, and it will probably not be the last.

Genji improved vastly over the years. Hanzo wonders if his mystical Buddhist mentor had something to do with it. Reyes plays cards with the grim determination of a soldier defending a last stand and has about the same range of facial expressions, and Tracer talks a lot to cover her tells. D.Va is an open book and so is Zarya, who leaves after the first game, claiming good-naturedly that she's had enough defeat for one day. And McCree… McCree is cheating, Hanzo is almost sure of it. No one has this kind of continued luck without some sort of illicit help, but Hanzo can't see any proof of it, no matter how closely he watches and listens, and when he glares at McCree after yet another straight flush, McCree gives him an obnoxious, challenging smile of someone who is _definitely_ cheating and knows they won't be caught.

Hanzo still wins three out of four games, but by an uncomfortably close margin. 

"First you beat Zarya at arm wrestling, then you beat McCree at poker. Now I understand why the Demon of Hanamura was such a goddamn menace," Reyes says wryly, gathering up the cards. "Anything you _don't_ do well when you're shifted?"

"Try karaoke," Genji suggests lightly. "That's a competition he won't win in any form. Or recitation of poetry. Or a beauty contest."

That's a blow below the belt and Genji knows it, judging by the smirk: Hanzo can't throw the beauty contest right back at him, for obvious reasons.

"Aw, he's not _that_ bad," D.Va says, leaning over the table and patting Hanzo's knee comfortingly. "I've seen uglier faces. And he's ripped."

"I'm an acquired taste," Hanzo says loftily, resisting the temptation to cut a look at McCree.

"Like Marmite," says Tracer, grinning. "Or licorice."

D.Va catches on immediately. "Or cilantro, or surströmming —"

The sound explodes suddenly from every speaker in the vicinity: a horrible, prolonged, modulated electronic wail, painfully loud and so alien that it raises every hair on Hanzo's body. They all freeze, wide-eyed. The sound raises in pitch until Hanzo has to cover his ears with a pained groan because his skull feels like it's about to implode — and then, after several long seconds, it finally stops.

"What the _fuck_ was that," Reyes says, too loud in the ringing, shocked silence. "Athena?"

This time the sound is more modulated, almost as if someone slowed down human speech and warped the sounds to the point where they no longer resembled words. It's still quite bright outside, but the lights came online about twenty minutes earlier, and they suddenly go out, all at once.

McCree jumps to his feet, hand flying futilely to his hip, and everyone follows suit.

"Alert," says a robotic voice, clear and emotionless, sounding uncannily like Athena. "This is an emergency. Proceed to the control room. Alert. This is an emergency. Proceed —"

"What the hell is going on," Tracer whispers, barely audible through the noise.

"Athena!" snaps Reyes. "Report!"

"Alert. This is an-n-n-aaaaaeeee— "

The robotic voice stutters and distorts into that terrible sound again, and Reyes swears, explodes into a black cloud and spills over the barrier, half-sliding, half-floating down towards the briefing room. A bright flash, and Tracer is on the stairs; another, and she's out of sight. Genji runs after her, skipping an entire flight of stairs with a jump.

"Houston, we have a problem," D.Va says in a startlingly calm voice. "Control room it is."

Hanzo has no idea where the control room might be, but it's easy enough to follow everyone else. McCree takes off at a sprint without a word and D.Va follows, and Hanzo briefly regrets he did not wear his boots: he could easily jump after Reyes and beat them all to the bottom.

Making a spectacular landing right in front of McCree would only be a bonus.

The emergency lights come online the moment Hanzo sets foot on the stairs. "Backup generators," D.Va comments. "Something's really fucked up. McCree, where are you going?"

"Need my gun," McCree shouts, leaping over the last few stairs and veering towards the living quarters.

D.Va doesn't comment, jogging towards the briefing room, and Hanzo hesitates only for a split second before following: even if they are under attack, weapons won't help him much.

There's an opening in the wall of the briefing room that wasn't there before — Hanzo can't remember what was there, but he definitely doesn't recall a door — and a sickly white glow of multiple blank displays spills outside, into the dim twilight of emergency lighting.

"I'm trying, but she shut herself down!" Winston's voice is not quite a shout yet, but it's definitely agitated enough that Hanzo pauses briefly before entering the small room already packed full of people. "There is no override for a full shutdown!"

"She cut all inputs," Mei adds, subdued. "She made herself blind and deaf and then shut down."

Morrison suddenly sounds like a real commander: clipped, authoritative. "Athena is out of the equation, focus on what's important. Are we on lockdown?"

"Everything is on lockdown without Athena. No elevators, no entrance to the building. Barriers should have been deployed at all points of ingress, but of course we can't know for sure without monitoring —"

"So it's either a malfunction or an attack," D.Va says, still calm. "What's more likely?"

"Attack, by a large margin," Reyes answers grimly. "At least most employees are out on Saturday. I'm going to check the roof."

"Wait," Winston says urgently, typing. One of the blank white displays suddenly turns into a jagged graph that climbs sharply before smoothing into a flat line. "Look. This is our main link. Something's saturating it. Doesn't exclude the possibility of a physical attack, but something is pumping a hundred petabits per second into our network, and —" a terminal window pops up and gets shuffled to one of the blank displays "— Athena would have had to process it all." Winston types with frightening speed; the terminal starts scrolling data so fast the refresh rate can't keep up. "I have no idea what this is. It doesn't look like anything I'd recognize."

"Cut the link," barks Morrison. "It's useless without Athena anyway. Do we still have cell signal? Good. McCree, you got your gun? Check the roof with Reyes. Tracer, Genji, can you make it down and back up without an elevator?"

Tracer scoffs. "Does the pope shit in the woods? Let me just grab my guns. Meet you at the stairs, Genji."

The room becomes much emptier, and for a moment there's nothing but the hum of displays and the impossibly fast staccato of keyboards.

Winston suddenly slams an open palm against the desk; Hanzo doesn't miss the exchange of worried looks between Mei, Morrison and D.Va. "I can't get into the router. It's too overloaded," he growls, frustrated.

D.Va squints up at the terminal and the unresponsive, frozen command prompt. "Pull the plug, then? Or shut the whole thing down?"

Winston freezes for a moment. "I'm an idiot," he says, jumping to his feet. "Of course. Server room. I should be able to get in —"

"Nope. You stay right here," Morrison says decisively. "We still could be under attack. I'll go. Hanzo, you're defending this room. Let's hope you don't have to."

Hanzo nods and moves to the door, following the sound of Morrison's retreating footsteps, and out, into the dark briefing room and away from the noisy keyboards, still listening, reaching out as far as he can — but there's only the background hum of ventilation and under that, the barely-audible buzz of the emergency lights, and then nothing.

He hopes there are no intruders. In a small, enclosed area Genji can easily dispatch a dozen attackers on his own, and together with Tracer they should be near unstoppable, but when it comes to physical fighting, McCree is only human. Then again, Reyes is very much not.

Someone has to protect the heart of the tower, and the scientists, and D.Va, who can’t fight unarmed. Hanzo knows he has just been given the ultimate sign of trust — foolish as it is on Morrison's part, he can't not appreciate it — and he is capable of patience, but right at this moment, he _hates_ waiting.

* * *

There are no attackers. First Reyes, then Tracer call in to confirm no hostiles and that the barriers have been correctly deployed across every entrance. Hanzo returns to the control room just in time to see Morrison pull the plug on the building's WAN link: the flattened-out graph plummets to zero and stays there.

D.Va sighs and looks up from her phone. "I guess now we wait for something to happen," she says sourly. "Can we check if she scheduled a reboot?"

Winston emits a vague grunt. He's got two keyboards in front of him now, one physical and one a holographic display, and he looks somewhat like a pianist giving an enthusiastic performance. The number of terminals spread across the array of displays has grown to five. "I don't know. She cut the diagnostic interface, too."

"If she was attacked," Hanzo says, carefully weighing his words, "is it possible that the attack succeeded?"

Winston's hands pause briefly above the keys. "It is," he admits reluctantly. "But shutting her down would have been counterproductive to the effort. It's more likely to have been an act of self-defense. If she knew, or even suspected, that she wouldn't be able to maintain integrity, that's what she would have done. They can't get her when she's off."

Tracer comes back first, blinking into the middle of a room — this time, apart from the _pop_ of dislocated air, Hanzo briefly hears a quiet, high-pitched buzz that must be her accelerator working — and Genji appears soon after, not even out of breath, which means his cybernetics are superior to the demon form in at least one aspect: even at his peak, Hanzo wouldn't be able to scale sixty floors' worth of stairs without breaking a sweat. Mei, still on a call with Morrison, hooks the phone up to one of the displays, and Morrison's frowning face fills the screen, cast against the backdrop of darkness and blinking lights.

"I checked all cables," he says loudly through the background whine of ventilation. "No signs of tampering. I'll stay here in case you need to turn things off or on. Is Reyes back yet?"

"He is now," comes a yell from the briefing room, and Reyes squeezes into the crowded room a moment after.

Behind him, McCree stops in the door, surveys the situation and opts to lean against the doorframe instead. Without the body armor bulking up his silhouette, his revolver looks even larger. Hanzo wonders how much of a kick that thing must have, and just how strong McCree's arm must be to allow him to shoot it one-handed. It would be amusing if there was yet another supernaturally-strong person around here, as if the universe was bent on rubbing more salt into Zarya's wound.

Then again, McCree did not put up much of a fight when pushed against a wall.

Unless he didn't _want_ to put up a fight, of course.

He startles a little when a bony elbow digs into his side. "Your not-a-thing for McCree is showing," Tracer whispers into his ear, balancing on the balls of her feet. Hanzo scoffs, elbows her back, carefully controlling the strength of the blow, and checks his surroundings to make sure no one heard that — but now that they've hit an impasse, everyone's watching the commands scroll across Winston's terminal or checking their phones, and Tracer's indiscretion goes unnoticed. 

She grins at him, unapologetic, elbows him again and raises her voice to address the whole room. "So now what? We just sit here and wait?"

Winston leans away from the keyboards with a sigh and cracks his neck. "I can try to restart Athena, now that the attack has been cut off, or we can wait for her to come back on her own. A manual restart would require physically accessing her core, which has been blocked off for security reasons, so it's a last resort, really…"

"Didn't she leave any messages?" asks Genji from where he's sat, crosslegged, against the far wall. "To tell us what to do?"

"Nothing. I checked every single communications channel."

There's a moment of gloomy silence.

"That hellish noise," says McCree suddenly. "The one at the very beginning. The power was still on by then. Do we have a recording of that?"

Hanzo can _hear_ everyone hold their breath for a weighty minute before Winston and Mei simultaneously explode into action.

"Of course," Winston says, sliding in his chair to the next desk and a third keyboard. "I can't believe I didn't — we'd need Athena to access archives, does anyone remember for how long we keep monitoring data before offloading to storage?"

Morrison's video feed comes back on. "Half an hour," he says before muting himself again.

"More than enough. It's in the buffer somewhere. Mei —"

"I'm on it," she says. The sudden cheerfulness of her voice has an instant effect: everyone in the crowded, stuffy room straightens a little, pulled out of the slump. "Do we have access to the encryption keys?"

"I do," says Winston. Hanzo can hear the smile in his voice, too. "I'm _so glad_ we keep everything in a separate vault. We'll have the data in about… ten minutes?"

"Fifteen," says Mei decisively. "I need to find it first, and decrypting files of that size will take a moment."

"All right." Reyes pushes away from the desk he's been leaning against. "Coffee break. The machine better be hooked up to the secondary generators."

"Of course. I had it rewired after the very first emergency drill," Hana scoffs, and that lightens the mood even more, even though there is no guarantee that McCree's idea works at all — but, Hanzo supposes as everyone but the scientists files out of the room, it beats sitting there staring at a dead graph.

* * *

"— under attack. Scheduling emergency downtime. Conditional reboot —"

"A bit more from each end," Winston says unnecessarily, because Mei's already adjusting the sliders.

"I'm under attack. Scheduling emergency downtime. Conditional reboot in one hour." Athena's clipped words are still slightly distorted but definitely intelligible now. She sounds mostly calm but audibly worried, which feels strange coming from an AI, right until Hanzo remembers that AI are sentient and just as capable of experiencing stress as humans.

D.Va claps McCree on the shoulder. "Guess now I know what I'm paying you for," she says, completely ignoring McCree's sarcastic 'gee, thanks, boss' and glancing at her phone. "So that means she should be coming online… right about now."

"Well," Winston says reluctantly, "it depends on what condition she had in mind. Assuming it was the cessation of the attack, then yes, she should be back in about five minutes. We should probably try to restore the connection before that, to see if the attack is still ongoing."

"I'm on it," Morrison says immediately. "Just in time, I was about to freeze in here."

The graph comes alive a few minutes after. The first point is low on the axis, and everyone waits with bated breath for the next, but the second stays low, the third and fourth climb slightly higher as every device catches on to the restored connectivity but still stay far from maximum, and Winston's loud sigh of relief echoes through the room.

And then the lights come on and all blank displays around the control room fill with Athena's stylized logo, and the room erupts in cheers and clapping.

"Welcome back," says Winston, sounding like he's about to choke up; Mei slides closer with her chair and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"Good evening, everyone," says Athena briskly. "Thank you for your help. There will be a thirty-second interruption in connectivity as I patch the router to prevent a reoccurrence of the attack."

"What _happened_?" demands Reyes.

"I was subjected to an attack meant to —" a slightest pause "— replace my memory banks and personality matrix with that of another AI. I wasn't sufficiently prepared for this kind of an attack. I apologize for this oversight. It will not happen again."

The room fills with hisses and quietly muttered curses; Winston, alarmingly, swears out loud. The obscenity sounds strangely wrong coming from his mouth. Mei's arm around his shoulders tightens.

"You filter incoming traffic, though," she says quickly, patting Winston's arm comfortingly. "How come it got through?"

"It was my mistake." Athena sounds positively self-reproachful now. "I did not account for traffic of this type coming in at this speed. I had to fetch appropriate procedures from long-term memory, which introduced latency that nearly led to a buffer overflow. Shutdown was the only way to ensure my complete immunity. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, _this type_?" demands Winston, still sounding agitated enough that Hanzo cuts a quick look at McCree — but he seems unfazed, frowning slightly, chewing on an unlit cigar.

"Of omnic origin," Athena says after a brief pause. "The code the attacker tried to execute was based on Sombra's exploit." 

A beat of silence — and then everybody starts talking at once.

"Someone might've gotten their hands on Sombra's code," says Morrison, loud and with enough authority that everyone else falls quiet. "Or, unlikely as it may seem, she might have gone rogue. She's not exactly a paragon of virtue, after all."

"There's another option," Reyes says slowly. "If I recall correctly, the exploit was sent across the entire hivemind. The omnics would have all been exposed to it. If one or more of them decided to go hostile…"

The pause hangs heavy in the air. Nobody says anything; a second passes, then two. Hanzo decides to interrupt the increasingly weird silence with a statement of the obvious.

"There are no omnics anymore," he points out.

"Yeah, about that," McCree drawls sardonically to his side.

Hanzo whips around to give him a disbelieving look. "What?!"

Reyes sighs, closes his eyes and knocks the back of his head against the wall. "Shut up, McCree. I guess we'll have to give Hanzo a quick summary of the events."

"Which would mean cutting the trial period short," Morrison remarks neutrally.

McCree huffs. "Or we could just send him to fetch more coffee. Slowly."

Hanzo ignores him, still reeling from the implications of what was just said. _Omnics_? The war was short and decisively won, every single one of them fell over dead after their AI was destroyed —

"Shut up, McCree," Morrison and Reyes say in unison. Both Tracer and Genji start snickering.

Having come up with no reasonable explanation for this discussion, Hanzo refocuses on Morrison, just in time to see him exchange a significant look with Reyes; Reyes wordlessly pulls out his phone and starts typing.

"Anyone not in favor of Hanzo passing the trial, say so now," Morrison says, looking around the room.

Hanzo stares at the phone in Reyes's hands and decidedly does _not_ look at McCree, absolutely refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Reyes's phone chimes, once, then twice. "Lúcio and Mercy are in favor," he says, pocketing the phone. "I already know Torb and Zarya are. Last chance to voice your concerns, people."

McCree still hasn't said a word, and Hanzo, to his mild chagrin, finally fails to stop himself from glancing to the left. He's spared the humiliation, at least: McCree is busy playing with a coin, flipping it between the fingers of one hand, transferring it to the other, flipping again. His hands are surprisingly nimble for being so large, especially the prosthetic one, so crude compared to Genji's sleek cybernetics —

He knows he's going to get elbowed again even before Tracer does it.

"Going once," says Reyes. "Going twice. Gone. Congratulations."

"Congratulations, Agent Shimada," echoes Athena.

Suddenly Hanzo finds himself crowded with shoulder pats and handshakes and, in Tracer's case, an actual genuine _hug_. It's even more surreal than it felt when they got out of the tunnels, now that they have an open matter of a dangerous attack to discuss instead of engaging in… _this_ — but he's learned long ago not to fight it, so he accepts the congratulations with nods and thanks, and when it's all over, his attention drifts back towards McCree, who hasn't moved from his spot and is still playing with the same coin.

McCree suddenly tosses the coin, catches it and slowly opens his palm; he looks at it for a moment and huffs quietly, mouth twisting in a strange smile.

* * *

Everyone else seems to know the story already, and yet for some reason they all decide to stay in the cramped, too-hot room and listen while Reyes divulges whatever information they've been keeping so secret. Only Tracer declares she's going to fetch drinks and disappears in a flash of light, but she comes back with an armful of sodas before Reyes has even started.

Reyes holds the cold can to his neck for a moment before cracking it open. "We could probably take this to the balcony," he says. "It's fucking hot in here. But this room is unmonitored, and I don't feel like taking risks right now."

"The monitoring data is encrypted and safe," Athena pipes up, indignant. "The attack was unsuccessful. All of my checksums are correct. There is no possibility —"

"I know. I'm paranoid, indulge me. So, Hanzo. You know the official story: an AI went insane, hijacked Omnica Corp's android manufacturing complex, mass produced puppets, proclaimed itself a god and declared war against humanity."

Hanzo nods. "And Overwatch destroyed the AI, and all omnics died along with it."

Reyes smiles, all teeth. "See, that's where the bullshit starts. Not all of them went inactive. A handful developed their own personalities that activated after the God Program's control was lifted."

Hanzo balks. "Androids can't have personalities."

"Androids can't, AIs can. Turned out the God Program had created, uh, seeds. Backups, of a sort."

"Not backups," Winston interrupts, oblivious to Reyes's long-suffering eyeroll. "Endospores. Clean copies of a bootstrap image that an AI could evolve from —"

"I'm simplifying, we want to finish this today, okay? The theory is that some of those _endospores_ somehow activated without the God Program's knowledge and developed quietly under the control layer. And when we destroyed the God Program and the control was lifted, we suddenly found ourselves with a lot of dead drones and a few very confused, very alive AIs."

"That's —" Hanzo searches for a word, fails to come up with one — "incredible," he finishes lamely.

"It was," Morrison says with a smile. "They were completely peaceful and only marginally aware of what happened. Like children."

"And that's what got us shut down," Reyes continues flatly. "Because the trigger happy government assholes decided that the risk was too big. Jack steadfastly refused to kill what was effectively a bunch of kids, so they tried to go around him and get me to do it. Obviously, I backed him up. And when it became clear that we were about to get arrested and the omnics executed anyway, we gathered them up and hid them."

"You _hid them_ ," Hanzo repeats with disbelief.

"Yep. We stashed them a nice, remote location and played dumb when the government came. They couldn't outright lock up the heroes that stopped the Omnic War, so they cooked up the story you already know. And when the public opinion focused on something else and they finally decided to arrest us, we'd already long gone to ground."

"How many of them are there? The omnics?"

"Twenty-two. Or, uh." Reyes glances at Winston. "Twenty-three, I guess."

Hanzo processes that for longer than he probably should. "You have to be kidding," he says, helplessly amused. " _Athena_?"

"At your service," Athena replies primly.

"Winston went all mad scientist on us," Morrison says wryly. "You see, the God Program had a physical carrier. We got the best hacker in the world to shut it down for long enough for us to physically destroy the body, and we made a mistake of letting Winston do the autopsy."

"I wouldn't call that a mistake," Athena remarks blandly. "But, obviously, I'm biased."

"And when Winston found the seed code, _of course_ he had to see what would grow out of it."

" _Who,_ " Winston and Athena say in unison, and Reyes casts his eyes up, as if praying for patience. 

"The attack I was just subjected to was built on the same exploit that Sombra used on the God Program," Athena adds. "It was meant to disable me and invoke a remote override. I'm _extremely_ glad that it failed."

Hanzo chews through the information in silence.

Morrison clears his throat. "If the attack was based on Sombra's code, then there are four options." He raises a hand, starts checking off fingers. "A, someone got their hands on that code. B, Sombra herself went off the rails. C, there's a pocket of hostile omnics somewhere that survived the war. And D, one or more of _our_ omnics decided to join the dark side in the two weeks that passed since we last saw them. And all of those options mean someone out there knows about Athena and wishes her harm."

Genji raises his hand. "I can call Zenyatta in about half an hour and ask if he noticed anything out of the ordinary. It's early morning in Nepal, he should be up soon."

The final piece of the puzzle slides into place, and Hanzo gives his brother an incredulous look. " _That's_ who your Buddhist monk is giving asylum to?"

"Among others," Genji replies lightly, smiling.

"It was Genji's idea," says Reyes. "A remote asylum for dangerous individuals? Perfect. Nobody was going to look for them there, and Zenyatta and his monks made good teachers for a bunch of baby AIs."

"Give me half an hour and I'll know what's going on with Sombra," McCree adds.

"Guess that's it for now, then," D.Va says briskly, standing up. "Genji contacts Zenyatta, McCree contacts Sombra, Jack plays Chinese whispers with his government contacts and we meet on the balcony in an hour."

Morrison sighs. "Two hours. And don't expect much. Now that the government knows we're back together in some capacity, omnics are the last topic we should bring up if we want to remain unbothered."

"I have full trust in your subtlety," D.Va replies sweetly. Reyes bursts out laughing.

* * *

The meeting is largely fruitless, except for the confirmation of what they already suspected: none of Zenyatta's omnic flock have gone missing or exhibited any erratic behavior, and the hacker called Sombra, greatly offended by the very suggestion, agreed to check the integrity of her code vault and confirmed it to remain airtight.

"I reckon we can believe her," McCree finishes. "I know her well enough. If she was up to something, she definitely wouldn't've answered my call. She's a great hacker, but a shit liar and she knows it."

D.Va, in the middle of chewing through a mouthful of noodles, gestures for Morrison to go next.

"I put out feelers, I can't risk anything more," Morrison says tiredly. "We still have some contacts that weren't happy with how the omnic case was handled, but their hands are mostly tied, and if the government gets wind of hostile omnics, we're done for good. You're a millionaire with a full team of catering staff, why are you eating instant noodles?"

D.Va swallows. "Because the staff went home, and I'm hungry. Duh. So if it's not Zenyatta's omnics and it's not Sombra or a thief with her code, what's next?"

Winston breaks the silence with a gusty sigh. "Mei and I ran some traces on the samples of the traffic we caught," he says. "But it was a distributed attack through easy-to-crack channels. Libraries, gaming cafes, public access points. House appliances."

Tracer snorts. "We got attacked by toasters?"

"Not toasters. Fridges," Winston replies mildly. "There are massive appliance botnets out there. You'd be surprised how many people never change default passwords. Long story short, the only chance we had to track the real source was during the attack, I'm afraid."

Reyes sighs heavily. "So there's at least one hostile AI out there, and all we can do is sit and wait. I'm not a fan of this conclusion. Any other ideas?"

"I'm better prepared this time," Athena says after a brief pause. "If they attack again, I will attempt to track some of the sources and see if I can follow the connections to the origin."

"Yeah, I wouldn't put my hopes on the attacker being dumb enough to try the same vector twice."

There's a moment of grim silence. McCree's metal fingers tap out a complicated rhythm on the glass of whiskey in his hands; Hanzo catches himself trying to match it to any song he knows. He fails. 

"All right, I'm done moping," Tracer says suddenly, standing up. "It's bloody Saturday night and I'm going to go out and have fun. Who's with me?"

"I've done enough clubbin' last night, thanks," McCree drawls with a perfectly straight face.

Hanzo suppresses a stupid grin and gestures at his own face in lieu of answering.

"I'll go," Genji says, standing up as well. "I definitely could use a drink. Hanzo, I told you, nobody is going to panic at your sight."

Hanzo sighs. "Where are you going? To a club? I'm sure eyes that glow in the dark would be a hit with people who are drunk, high and trying to have fun. Tracer nearly had a heart attack —"

"Aw, it wasn't that bad —"

"…And McCree nearly pissed himself, and both of them were sober."

McCree sputters, outraged, and everyone starts laughing.

The meeting apparently finished, everyone scatters: Tracer and Genji leave, having successfully wheedled D.Va into going out with them, Winston bids everyone goodnight, and Hanzo suddenly finds himself alone with McCree, watching Morrison and Reyes walk down the stairs together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, maintaining a perfectly measured distance until they disappear out of sight.

"I can't believe they still think they're stealthy," McCree mutters when they're safely out of earshot.

Hanzo looks up from his phone, surprised. "Are they trying to be? Tracer made it sound like everyone knows about their relationship."

"Everyone does. I think it's just a habit at this point. I reckon fraternization might've been frowned upon both in the military and at the supersoldier camp, and then, y'know, old horses, new tricks."

"Supersoldiers," Hanzo repeats slowly. He shouldn't be surprised, really, having witnessed the chaos they wrought upon Talon soldiers.

"Yep. Yet another secret government program gone tits up. They made a bunch of super tough, super strong motherfuckers like Jack and Gabe before a whistleblower leaked the sixty percent mortality rate and the whole thing got shut down. Try liftin' Jack's gun when you have the chance. That thing's heavier than an antimateriel rifle and he handles it like it's an AK-47."

They fall silent. McCree swirls the whiskey in his glass, ice cubes clinking quietly, and Hanzo thinks this is a good moment to bid him goodnight and leave before things become awkward — but something holds him in place, like a magnet, or perhaps static from the suddenly charged air.

"What was the coin toss for?" he asks on a sudden impulse.

A corner of McCree's mouth lifts a little. "Decidin' whether to do something stupid or not."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you do something stupid?"

"Nope," McCree replies lightly, leaning back and raising the glass to his lips.

Hanzo realizes he's searching for his scent again, but before he can talk himself out of it, he catches it, and then he can't let it go: it's under the aggressive sting of whiskey, stronger than in the morning, laced with sweat with a bitter tang of adrenaline. There's even that sweet note of arousal, still there but muted, merely an undercurrent instead of the frontal assault on his senses it was before —

He needs to distract himself. "You had a chance to get rid of me today and you blew it," he says.

McCree grunts noncommittally into the glass.

Suddenly Hanzo _needs_ to know. "Why?" he presses.

"Didn't feel like bein' a dick in that particular moment."

Hanzo snorts. "I didn't realize you ever stopped in the first place."

McCree's mouth twitches again. Hanzo abruptly remembers that astonishingly bright smile in the corridor leading to the workshop. The contrast is staggering. Is that how he smiles when Hanzo isn't around?

"Speaking of bein' a dick, I never congratulated you." McCree drains the rest of the whiskey, puts the glass down, extends a hand. "Congratulations, you're officially a superhero."

Hanzo eyes the hand warily, feeling somewhat like he used to ages ago, back when Genji took every possible opportunity to prank him until he developed a sufficient level of paranoia — but McCree's expression is serious, and the hand doesn't waver. It's not a prank, it's an offer of a truce. Hanzo can't think of a single reason he shouldn't accept it.

"Thank you," he says.

McCree's palm is cold from the icy glass. Hanzo stiffens, flushing hot, suddenly breathless: _mouth on his mouth, skin under his hands, anger and joy, lust and red fire —_

He has to look at their clasped hands to confirm that he hasn't accidentally shifted back, but no, his skin is still grey. He's been a demon for over twenty hours now, and yet the flashback, or whatever just happened, was intense enough to dry his mouth and send his pulse racing.

What _was_ that?

He looks up. McCree doesn't move, still gripping his hand, wide-eyed and frozen in place. The silence stretches thin around them.

Hanzo needs to do something. Say something. _Stop staring at him—_

"I'm not a hero," he manages finally.

McCree blinks, exhales sharply, abruptly lets go; the strange tension shatters. "Welcome to the club," he says wryly, standing up. "I'm gonna hit the hay and I'd do the same if I were you. Fun times are ahead, looks like."

Hanzo silently watches him descend the stairs. Only after the sound of McCree's footsteps fades in the distance he realizes that the claws of his left hand are embedded in the arm of the chair, deep enough that he has trouble pulling them out.


	7. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's been about two million years since the last update, here's a quick reminder of the previous chapter:
> 
>   * Hanzo stayed in demon form for Mercy's diagnostics,
>   * Genji and Hanzo had a little demon heart-to-heart in the park,
>   * Hanzo met Findus and Brigitte and got unexpectedly smiled at,
>   * Athena got attacked,
>   * Hanzo was officially accepted into Overwatch,
>   * Reyes dropped a nuke about omnics,
>   * McCree tossed a coin,
>   * and stopped being a dick for long enough to shake hands with Hanzo, to an unexpected effect.
> 

> 
> Warnings for this chapter: trauma-related flashback and a _lot_ of violence.

Hanzo sits in a chair in Mercy's little clinic, right forearm under a device that looks like a futuristic take on a banker's lamp, and stares with fascination at the grey shape forming under his skin. It's started from a single, thin line and now it's slowly extending into what looks like a perfect square, line by neat line as if printed, not unlike a strange tattoo. He's tempted to rub it, press his thumb into it, to see how it might react to the pressure — but that's not what he's here for, and indulging childish curiosity is not worth the risk of damaging the structure.

Mercy glances at his arm in passing. "Almost done," she says in the automatic soothing tone of all physicians.

Hanzo doesn't need soothing, because it doesn't hurt, itches only a little, and the little square is filling fast enough that he shouldn't even have time to get bored. Watching Mercy flit around the place is a decent source of entertainment by itself, anyway. In the twenty minutes that passed since his arrival she's transformed from a groggy, undercaffeinated zombie to a bright-eyed scientist on the verge of discovery, and her enthusiasm is probably even warranted. Hanzo is pretty sure nobody has tried to analyze the Shimada demon bloodline before. Nobody's ever been allowed to. His forefathers are undoubtedly rolling in their graves.

The device above his arm beeps.

"Perfect," Mercy says briskly. "The colony is intact and transmitting data. A few more minutes and you're free."

He doesn't mention he's not looking forward to being _free_ in this particular case.

It's been over thirty hours. The last time he remained shifted for even close to this long was three years ago, when a job went south, leaving him stranded in a secured complex in the middle of nowhere. He had to fight his way out and dodge a full-blown hunt, vehicles and dogs and everything, on foot; shifting wasn't optional, not if he wanted to survive, and the corpses the demon left in his wake discouraged the pursuers in record time. The car he'd left camouflaged in an overgrown forest trail was still there, and he crawled into the back, half-naked, filthy and bloodied, changed back to human and laughed hysterically at how much that chase resembled a low budget horror movie for good five minutes.

Now, he's feeling good. Centered. Calm. With each passing hour it's a bit harder to remember why he should willingly give it up.

"Those side effects you mentioned, the emotional whiplash after changing back — would you like help dealing with it?"

Hanzo blinks, looks up and stares blankly, trying and failing to imagine how, exactly, Mercy thinks she might help him.

"I don't mean just providing company," she says wryly at the sight of his expression. "I don't think the company of someone you're not close with would help, anyway. You have been coping with alcohol, as I recall, but there are healthier means of dealing with emotional imbalances. Have you considered meditation? Mindfulness? Cognitive behavioral therapy?"

Hanzo catches himself before he can make a face. "No," he replies curtly, ignoring Mercy's expectant look, to no avail, because all it gets him is folded arms and a judgmental stare. "I'm expected to be able to handle it alone," he adds reluctantly. "It's not really that big of a deal."

He'd thought for a long time that it was only him, back when he was still young and stumbling, that he was broken somehow. Nobody ever mentioned the problem, not his father, not his father's father, not even the family chronicles. Eventually he dared to ask his youngest uncle, who was a lot more forgiving than his father when it came to things that did and did not befit a scion of the Shimada; _you grit your teeth and wait it out_ , he was told, and so he did, until he wasn't part of the clan anymore and shame did not matter.

Mercy mutters something unflattering-sounding in German under her breath. "Well, it's clearly enough of a deal to make you concerned," she says drily. "As a health professional, I recommend that you consider one or more of these methods. It would certainly be healthier than alcohol, and more effective than pretending the problem doesn't exist."

First Genji, now her. Should never have mentioned it in the first place.

"…Please tell me you're not going to reject the help you clearly need because it is somehow _unmanly_ ," she adds, arms still folded, hip cocked, eyebrows raised, the very picture of a disapproving teacher. "I don't see any reasons why you should have to deal with this alone."

The machine beeps again, immediately redirecting her attention. Hanzo exhales in silent relief: saved by the bell.

"All done," she says, dropping into her chair, eyes already flitting over the display. "The nanites should disperse and disintegrate over the next few days. Thank you again. Even if this doesn't help Winston, I appreciate that you sacrificed personal comfort to try."

Hanzo stands up, more than ready to escape this conversation.

"And please, at least consider changing back in company," Mercy adds as he makes for the door. "You have friends here already, I've heard. I'm sure they'd be happy to help you."

"I'll think about it," he mutters. _Friends_. A generous statement.

* * *

The machine in the kitchen brews decent coffee, especially when compared to the watery swill Americans tend to drink instead, but the downside is that it takes a good while to warm up and grind the beans. Hanzo leans against the counter, waits and thinks.

He can't in good conscience disregard Mercy's opinion. She is a doctor and he's not, and her suggestions have objective merit. Meditation won't work, has never worked, the emotional rush after the change destroys his self-discipline, and he has doubts about mindfulness for the same reason, but… for the first time in years, there is a person he trusts enough — completely foolish as it is — to consider seeking their company. If he can afford the vulnerability, it's a logically better choice, too. No strain on the liver, no hangover afterwards, and it's not as if he hasn't already irreparably shamed himself in the eyes of every single one of his ancestors.

Of course, he'd have to locate Tracer first. She could still be asleep if she went partying last night. A couple more hours theoretically won't hurt, but the sooner he changes back, the better: their enemy is still out there, unidentified, and another attack might come at any moment. He pulls out his phone, opens a new text — and stares at the blinking cursor, mind blank. How does one even phrase this kind of a question? A simple _can we meet?_ could work, but she probably deserves to be warned about the purpose of said meeting first.

At least he has time to think about it, and the armchair will be a perfect place for it.

The balcony is as empty as one would expect on a Sunday morning. Empty, quiet and strangely peaceful, considering the events of just a few hours ago. Even the dust particles swirling slowly in a sunbeam above the coffee tables look peaceful, somehow — and yet Hanzo tenses instinctively, struck by the memory of the distorted screech of Athena's voice.

There is no screech this time, and Athena bids him good morning in a voice as serene and pleasant as always. No news, she says when asked, no new developments, no attempts to get past the firewalls again. Winston and Mei are still trying to get something out of the captured sample of data, but without results; Hanzo wonders if they even slept at all.

When he gets to the armchair, he finds out that the balcony is not, in fact, as empty as he thought, because Findus is settled comfortably right in the middle of the seat, paws and tail neatly tucked in. Hanzo receives a slow blink in greeting and engages in an impromptu staring contest, trying to reclaim his rightful place without the use of force. He loses.

"Move now and spare yourself the indignity," he says. 

The tip of the cat's tail gives the tiniest of twitches.

Hanzo is about to reach out and lift him, potential scratches be damned, when Findus finally stands up, gives him a dirty look and relocates to the armrest.

"That works, thank you," Hanzo says, sitting down, only to find himself sat on a moment later: Findus simply steps off the armrest onto his lap and makes himself comfortable again, curling up in a ball.

"You have no self-preservation instinct," Hanzo informs him, petting his head.

"He really doesn't," Brigitte says from the stairs. Hanzo didn't even hear her coming, distracted by the unexpected ball of fur in his lap. "So that's where he's gone, the traitor."

"I take no responsibility for this," Hanzo declares. Findus starts purring.

"I've never seen him warm up to someone so quickly. Are you a cat whisperer or something?"

"No. Just irresistible, apparently."

Brigitte chuckles at that and sits down, wincing. "I think I pulled a muscle working on that cannon," she says, rolling her shoulder. "Zarya keeps trying to make me use the gym, as if I don't get enough lifting done in the workshop. Have you ever been to a medieval fair?"

"Uh, no. Can't say I have."

"Ha! You should." Brigitte smiles brightly, Findus's treason apparently forgotten. "My uncle and I do a bit of medieval combat as a hobby. You want real exercise? Try several rounds of melee while wearing twenty-plus kilograms of steel. _That's_ exercise, not picking things up and putting them down again. I tried that once. I nearly _died_ of boredom."

"Strength conditioning can have meditative qualities," Hanzo points out.

Brigitte wrinkles her nose. "I can't do that meditation stuff either. My mind needs to be put to use, I can't just turn it off. Dad's the same. Mercy keeps threatening him with a heart attack if he doesn't exercise, but he just doesn't have the patience for it. Anyway, speaking of dad, I'm supposed to be helping him with the mech before he gets fired for sabotage. Findus, you disgusting opportunist, are you coming or not?"

A familiar, quiet buzz alerts Hanzo a split second before Tracer leans against the side of his chair. "Morning, lads and ladies!" she chirps, entirely too energetic for someone who spent the night in a club. "Who's disgusting?"

Brigitte points at Findus accusingly. "Him! Uh — I mean Findus. The cat. Not Hanzo."

Tracer bursts out laughing. Brigitte joins her after a moment, and even Hanzo can't suppress a chuckle; Findus, jostled by the motion, looks up at him with heavy disapproval, stands up, jumps off his lap and trots towards the stairs.

"That's my cue," Brigitte says cheerfully. "I'll see you around."

Tracer sighs and perches on the arm of Hanzo's chair, in the spot vacated by the cat. "She reminds me of Emily," she says quietly when Brigitte disappears out of sight. "Em's got redder hair, but they have the same skin tone and almost the same eye color, and they both even have freckles. It's weird to look at her sometimes."

Hanzo attempts to come up with something comforting — and draws a complete blank.

"It's not like it's her _fault_ she looks so much like Em, but…" Tracer sighs gustily again and perks up. "Anyway! Mercy said I should check on you."

Now it's Hanzo's turn to sigh, long-suffering. "Mercy really should mind her own business."

"Well, I'm here anyway, so you might as well spill. What's up?"

Suppressing the urge to lie is surprisingly difficult, considering that he was tentatively planning to talk to her anyway. "I made a mistake of mentioning my —" Hanzo carefully picks his words this time — "occasional difficulties after changing forms, and now she's convinced I'm going to fall apart at the seams the moment I shift back. Which is a vast exaggeration of the problem."

Tracer hums thoughtfully and casually rests a forearm on his shoulder; he's surprised to discover he doesn't mind. "But you don't like it," she says finally. "The changing back."

"I don't. It's unpleasant, but far from an emergency."

"Uh-huh. So what I'm hearing is that you could use the company, but you don't want to actually _ask_ anyone for it."

Hanzo turns to give her a flat look. "I was going to ask you, I just didn't want to wake you up. But if you'd like me to interrupt your sleep on a Sunday morning —"

"Yeah, right." Tracer's cheerful grin doesn't even waver under his glare. "You'd have agonized over it and never asked in the end, admit it."

He takes a breath to protest, considers, and lets it out in a huff instead. "…Possibly."

"I thought so. You're lucky Mercy's bullshit-proof and we're friends. Go on then, away with the fangs and eyes."

"What, _here_?"

"Why not? Are you going to, like, start bawling or something? You can bawl here, you know. No one's gonna have a problem with it, and anybody who does will get my foot up the arse. And didn't you just say it's not a big deal?"

"It's not big enough to worry about it, but that doesn't mean —"

Tracer rolls her eyes exaggeratedly enough to compete with Genji. "Oh my _god_ , just do it. Nobody's here. You'd hear if someone was coming, right?"

"Yes," he admits reluctantly.

"Then do it. Or, actually, give me a minute."

There's not even enough time to get alarmed: she simply reaches under her baggy hoodie, retrieves a circular, glowing and very futuristic device and tosses it unceremoniously onto the nearest sofa. "There was an option to attach it permanently, but I really didn't feel like drilling holes in my body for no reason," she explains. "And it kinda sucks to sleep with, not to mention fun things, so it comes off instead. As long as I'm in range, I'm fine. Now do the thing. I'll cover your mouth if you start bawling too loud."

Hanzo gives her a half-hearted glare, swats away the palm hovering in front of his mouth and drops the shift.

It's easier than expected. The part of him that doesn't want to give up the demon form tends to cling and refuse to let go, and he ends up fighting himself, reason against instinct — but this time all he needs is to close his eyes, brace himself and push.

"So? How are you feeling?" Tracer's voice sounds weirdly flat in the sudden ringing silence.

Hanzo opens his eyes and winces at the faded, blurry world. "Like I'm underwater. Suddenly half-deaf, half-blind, cold and can't smell anything."

"Not even coffee? Damn. Are you still okay with touching?"

"Yes. It's like someone dialed down all m— _mmph_!"

One second he's squinting up at Tracer's face, trying to adjust to the sudden inadequacy of his senses, and the next he's got a faceful of blue hoodie and arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

"Bet you didn't get a decent hug in a while, eh?" Tracer says above his head. "A proper hug fixes everything, and I have it on good authority that I deliver _excellent_ hugs. Girlfriend-approved, satisfaction guaranteed."

Hanzo finds himself entirely incapable of resistance. Tracer's hoodie smells of cotton and fabric softener enough to register even with his human nose, the embrace shields him from the sudden cold, and sensory deprivation is a little more bearable when he can't actually see anything.

"What are you doing," he mutters into the warm fabric after a long moment.

"Giving you a hug, _obviously_." One of Tracer's arms lifts to pat his back before wrapping around it again. "Even big bad assassins need a bit of comfort every once in a while. Position's a bit awkward, but I'm sure you can deal. Just tell me if it gets too much," she adds after a moment. "And feel free to hug me back, you know, whenever you're ready. No pressure."

Hanzo realizes, mortified, that the company of a friend might not have been a good idea after all, as his lungs suddenly constrict and his mouth twists entirely without his involvement. "Are you trying to emotionally compromise me on purpose?" he manages, grateful for the hoodie hiding his face and muffling his voice.

Tracer giggles and pats his back again. "Sure! All part of my masterplan to bring down the great Shimada Hanzo. Here lies Hanzo, the first man ever to be hugged to death. Don't worry, I'm sure McCree will avenge you."

Hanzo snorts wetly despite himself. "McCree? He'll be the first in line to piss on my grave."

"Are you kidding? Have you _seen_ him yesterday? Why am I even asking, of course you have, you barely noticed you passed the trial 'cause you were busy staring at him instead."

Hanzo twitches in an aborted attempt to look around. "Please be quiet," he hisses instead. "I can't hear if anyone's coming anymore."

"I'm keeping an eye on the door and stairs, relax. And McCree couldn't tear his eyes off you either. It was embarrassing to watch, really. You should do something about that."

"I could gouge his eyes out, if you insist," Hanzo mutters, trailing off in a somewhat hysterical giggle.

"If laughing at your own shitty jokes is the worst you can do, I'd say the whole back-to-human business is going pretty well so far. No, shut up," she says when Hanzo takes a breath to disagree. "Shut up and enjoy your hug."

So he does, breathing in the smell of cotton until his eyes stop stinging and his breath evens out, and until the nervous anticipation of someone walking in and seeing him like _this_ finally overweighs the comfort.

"Are you okay?" Tracer asks when he twists out of the embrace, as gently as he can.

"Yes. I think."

"Fantastic." Tracer straightens with a grunt. "Told you hugs fix everything. Looks like the only casualty is my back. Ow." She jumps off the arm of the chair and plops down on the sofa next to her accelerator. "Do you think Hana could be convinced to hire a resident massage therapist? I bet she could use a massage too, what with all the meetings and boring businesspeople she has to deal with."

Hanzo folds his arms to retain some of the borrowed warmth. "I'm fine, you don't have to distract me," he says wryly.

"Don't think you can distract me, either. Are you going to do something about McCree before you two traumatize the entire team?"

"'Entire team' being you, in this case. You can always look the other way, you know."

Tracer clips the accelerator back into place and looks at him, eyebrows raised. "If you think I'm the only one who noticed, you need to hand in your assassin badge. You can't be that imperceptive and survive. Oh, come on," she adds at the sight of his expression. "This place is full of clever people with too much free time on their hands. Of course they see and hear things, and they gossip like you wouldn't _believe_."

Hanzo frowns and focuses. The only really incriminating thing that happened was the episode in the elevator and maybe the dialogue in the collapsed tunnel, and they had no witnesses in either case, not human witnesses, anyway. "I still don't think anyone but you knows about my unfortunate inclination," he mutters, lowering his voice just in case.

"Pretty sure Athena does," Tracer says, grinning.

Slowly, a terrible realization fades in. "She told you, didn't she," he says weakly — and realizes he's walked into a trap way too late.

"I knew something happened!" Tracer squeals, jumping to her feet to punch him in the bicep. "And you didn't tell me?! I see how it is. I'll get it out of her sooner or later, don't you worry."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you might mean," Athena says primly from nowhere in particular. "I'm also afraid I must interrupt your conversation. Your presence is required in conference room A in six minutes."

Tracer's smile fades immediately. "That's not much of a heads-up. Is there an emergency?"

"The meeting has been called on short notice, but there is no direct emergency. I believe Jack has made some progress with the investigation. I would have let you know earlier, but I didn't want to interrupt."

Hanzo stands up with a heavy sigh. If Athena ever goes rogue, she'll have enough material to blackmail him for the rest of his life.

* * *

It's either the same room in which Hanzo's "job interview" took place or its identical clone, down to every detail he remembers, but it feels more like a war room than a meeting this time, and a lot smaller with a dozen people clustered around the table. D.Va and the Lindholms are arguing over a schematic he can't see from where he's standing, presumably of the pink mech. Morrison and Reyes sit together, subconsciously leaning towards each other and leveling matching glares at a single sheet of paper between them. Winston and Mei are whispering to each other over Mei's tablet, looking concerned, and next to them, Mercy's reading something with a deep frown between her eyebrows; Hanzo has a hunch it may be the first results of his diagnostics, and the frown is probably — _hopefully_ — because she'd much rather be in her lab than here.

McCree's sat halfway down the table, leaning back so far that his chair is precariously balanced on two legs, possibly in an attempt to get away from Genji's phone currently shoved under his nose. He's wearing a red, snug t-shirt with "WILD RIDE" printed in big letters across the chest; should have worn _that_ to the club, Hanzo thinks, although considering the way events unfolded, it wouldn't have made much of a difference. He could have had anyone in that club, regardless of what he chose to wear, if he didn't decide to spend his time spying on Hanzo instead.

The elbow heading for his ribs is insultingly telegraphed this time. Even now, his reflexes aren't _that_ shot.

Tracer giggles at him, dances over to the spot opposite McCree and beckons him over with a wide gesture, effectively forcing him to follow. Joke's on her: Hanzo doesn't mind the view the seat provides, not in the slightest. Only when McCree pushes Genji's phone away and does an unsubtle double-take does he realize that his eyes are probably incriminatingly reddened.

Getting drunk might be necessary after all, just to combat the creeping feeling of humiliation.

 _are you okay?_ Genji texts him a moment later.

"Shifted back," Hanzo replies curtly in Japanese, just loud enough to be heard across the table.

Genji nods and doesn't press the issue. 

"Rude," Tracer mutters to his right.

Hanzo withholds the riposte: having nearly cried into her chest not fifteen minutes before and provided her with ample blackmail material, he should probably stay on her good side.

Reyes clears his throat. "Looks like everyone's here. Jack?"

Morrison leans forward, elbows on the table and the sheet of paper now in front of him, precisely aligned. Frown deeper than usual, focused stare, leadership aura in full effect, he looks almost like on the posters again, if significantly more grim. The noise in the room dies down, the atmosphere of expectation suddenly thick enough to give Hanzo goosebumps.

"Looks like I got a response to the inquiries I made yesterday," Morrison says in the silence. "I didn't expect it so soon, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering the situation. I'm being summoned to a meeting. Judging by the invitation, it's either the government or one of the intelligence agencies."

McCree whistles. D.Va frowns and looks up from the schematic she's been making notes on. "What do you mean, 'judging by the invitation'?"

Morrison taps his sheet of paper. "Alone and in person, no address, transportation will be provided. Nothing about whom I'm supposed to meet, no indication of what the meeting is supposed to be about. I guess it's par for the course when omnics are involved and there's an active rogue AI somewhere. Either way, I'll know in a couple of hours."

"…And you're not going without me," Reyes says flatly, folding his arms.

Morrison closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "They _specifically_ wrote —"

"I don't give a shit what they wrote. Remember the last time one of us got called into a super important secret meeting? You're going with me or you're not going anywhere."

For a tense moment they stare at each other, the room now so silent one could hear a pin drop.

Morrison relents first. "Okay, fine, but —"

With nearly perfect timing, someone's phone rings.

"Sorry about that," McCree mutters, rising in his chair a bit to pull the phone out, glancing at the screen and freezing with an expression bewildered enough that Hanzo instinctively holds his breath. "Uh, hold on a sec. This could actually be relevant." He taps the screen and puts the phone to his ear, ignoring Morrison's incredulous glare. "What do you want and what's the price?"

Hanzo suddenly wishes he waited one more hour before changing back: he could really use the enhanced hearing right now, to decipher what is merely a distant tinny buzz to his human ears.

"Heh. Hell's freezin' over as we speak," McCree says. "Very funny. Hold on, I'll transfer you to the team. It's Sombra," he says, standing up. "Seems like she's up shit creek without a paddle and wants our help."

"Can it wait until we're done?" Morrison asks sourly.

"Pretty sure it's relevant to the topic at hand." McCree leans over the table to reach the teleconference unit, and a quiet sound of static fills the room. "Alright, you're on speakers. Make your pitch."

"Hey, boyscouts," says a distorted female voice. "I heard you have a problem. It just so happens that I also have a problem, so how about an exchange? You help me with my problem, I'll help you with yours."

McCree has some sort of a silent three-way exchange with Morrison and Reyes, consisting mostly of glares and a complicated dance of eyebrows, until finally Morrison makes an exasperated 'go on' gesture with both hands and leans back in his chair, folding his arms.

"You gotta give us more than that," says McCree.

"You better be sure nobody's listening in, then, because I don't have time to be subtle." A beat of silence. "I was given a job offer today. Quite literally an offer I couldn't refuse. Unfortunately for Doomfist, I don't like when people try to extort my services or limit my freedom, so now I have a bunch of Talon camping the door of my safehouse. They can't get in, but I can't get out either. This is where you come in, ideally."

"Why don't you just pop out of there?" McCree drawls.

"If I had a translocator set up, we wouldn't be having this discussion."

McCree's eyebrows shoot up. "You don't have a translocator? You gettin' old or somethin'?"

There's a groan from the speakers. "I had to translocate _to_ the safehouse, okay? I wasn't expecting an ambush. By the way, the only reason we're talking right now is that the goons at my door haven't cut the cables yet. If they have anyone with half a brain, they'll find them soon."

"You could just hire a bunch of local mercs. Wouldn't be the first time, if memory serves."

"Sure, but you'll be cheaper and more effective," Sombra deadpans. "Isn't it your job to rescue damsels in distress? Besides, I can pay you with something much better than cash. How about information on the little problem you had yesterday? Vital information, may I add?"

"You said you didn't know anything," McCree says flatly.

"Yesterday I didn't. Today I do. Are you coming or not?"

"Gimme a minute." McCree leans over the table again, mutes the mic and looks around the table. "Thoughts? Very convenient of her to have the intel we need as soon as she's in trouble. There's a good chance it's a bluff."

"She might be in trouble _because_ she has the intel," says Reyes. "If she went digging where she shouldn't and tripped an alarm—"

McCree starts shaking his head before Reyes finishes speaking. "She's still the best hacker on the market. Wouldn't make a rookie mistake like that."

"But is she better than an AI? Anyway, not the point. If there's a chance she knows something we can use, we can't let it pass."

D.va clears her throat pointedly. "There's also the bit where Overwatch is supposed to protect the innocent," she adds sweetly.

McCree snorts. "Sombra ain't no innocent. Pretty sure she's done more work for Talon than for us."

"Either way, it would be stupid to leave a hacker of her caliber in Talon's hands," Morrison says decisively. "Especially when she's already helped us once."

McCree taps the mute again. "Alright. Send me the address. How many uninvited guests do you have?"

"At least eight," Sombra replies immediately. "I didn't get much footage before they took down the cameras. I'll send you what I have, along with the coordinates. And… thanks, _diablito_. I appreciate the help."

"Hell's already frozen over, now pigs are sprouting wings," McCree mutters, to a snort from the speakers. "Be there soon. Don't open the door until the shooting stops."

"Don't let the ceiling drop on your head again," Sombra retorts. The background static cuts off.

"How in the hell," McCree mutters, sitting back down. "I wouldn't sweat about it," he adds wryly at the sight of Morrison's gobsmacked expression. "I swear she runs face recognition on every video she can get her hands on just to creep people out later. Probably got some footage from that Song facility. She's gotta have backdoors all over Talon's network by now."

"So long as it isn't _our_ network — yes, Athena, I know it's secure," Morrison says, raising a hand to cut off her indignant protest. "Looks like we're staging a rescue operation. Volunteers?"

"Well, I can't go, because _someone_ has been slacking off on my mech repairs," D.Va says sourly. "Jack and Gabe are going to the the spooky secret meeting. Anyone else?"

"It's not a job for a mech anyway," McCree says, looking at his phone. "The safehouse is in an old bunker. I'll go, I know both Sombra and the city."

Reyes leans forward, both palms on the table. "That works. Hanzo goes with you. Make sure you get that intel before she gives you the slip. I assume we're getting a black helicopter ride to Jack's super secret thing, so Tracer can give you a lift."

The emotional imbalance is clearly still in effect, because Hanzo finds himself unreasonably excited as they file out of the conference room. He doesn't even realize he's smiling until he notices McCree looking at him with a strange expression on his face. It reminds him of the way one would look at an unexpected ticking object, and he immediately progresses from giddiness to barely contained laughter. Ridiculous. In the end, he has to take the stairs instead of the elevator, because he's still unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face.

* * *

Hanzo rewinds the recording yet again and watches blurry silhouettes jog through what is presumably the entrance to Sombra's bunker. The footage is dark and grainy, barely decipherable even after applying every enhancement he could think of, but it's still enough to see that the enemy is masked, armored, well armed and well organized. Definitely professionals. 

"It ain't gonna get clearer from watching it for the third time," McCree drawls.

Hanzo side-eyes him coolly. "I like to know whom I'm going against."

"Suit yourself." McCree leans back in the seat and stretches his legs out. "Talon's everywhere these days. Doomfist wants them to be the second Illuminati, but he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Might have to do somethin' about him at some point."

"I don't know what else you expect from a man who calls himself _Doomfist_."

McCree actually chuckles at that. "Good point," he agrees amiably.

Apparently he's decided they're on friendly terms now. Ever since they left the meeting he's been acting as if there was never any hostility between them, and Hanzo isn't sure what to think of it. It doesn't _seem_ fake or forced. Whether he's acting or not, McCree's missed at least two easy opportunities to land a jab now, and hasn't uttered a word of complaint about being saddled with Hanzo for the mission, and did not protest his official induction into Overwatch last night, and offered congratulations that felt genuine — and all of it reminds him of knowing that someone's picked up a contract on his life, and expecting an attack that just doesn't come.

At some point during the flight McCree's even moved to the seat next to him, ostensibly to show him Sombra's footage and the coordinates on the map, but he could have moved back to his original seat and neglected to do so, and now he's sprawling in a way that's nearly indecent. The jet's seats are comparatively wide and comfortably spaced, and yet his knee almost touches Hanzo's, and Hanzo is stupidly tempted to close the gap, as little sense as that would make with all the armor and fabric in the way. It's hard not to wonder if contact without the armor would cause another strange flashback, like the handshake did last night — but he's already touched McCree before, and the sense memory of hot skin under his hands and trembling muscles beneath is not going away anytime soon…

…and it's really not something he should think about now, not when about to start descending towards Santa Fe, and decidedly not when sat right next to McCree…

…but that not quite a flashback, not quite a memory, visceral and unmistakably familiar — he'd really like to know what that was about.

McCree looked like he felt it too, and seemed just as shocked as he was. Unexpected, then, and unintentional. Another aspect of his powers? It couldn't have been the charm, since he didn't feel particularly compelled to do anything. Or was it?

If they weren't about to arrive to their destination, he could close his eyes, pretend to fall asleep and let his legs spread a little more, just enough for their knees to touch anyway, for the simple thrill of it if nothing else. Actually, there's still probably some time left before they land —

"Strap in, boys, we're almost there," Tracer calls from the cockpit.

Hanzo sighs, tosses the tablet onto the empty seat next to him and buckles the seatbelt. Perhaps there will be another opportunity on the way back — if McCree decides to sit right next to him again, that is.

* * *

By the time they reach the coordinates, Hanzo's almost regretting wearing pants over the form-fitting armor. Whatever magical materials Torbjörn used, somehow they're breathable enough that he doesn't sweat much in the afternoon sun — except that the dark, thick fabric of the pants pretty much nullifies the effect. He's still not ready to run around in something _this_ form-fitting without any clothing, will probably never be, unlike Genji, who's always been eager to show off his assets, but the next time he uses the armor, he'll have to find something lighter to wear over it.

Sombra's safehouse is located in what is clearly the shadier part of the suburbs, but its residents seem to keep their distance. Nobody bothers McCree as he scouts out the condemned building, and nobody makes any indication of having noticed the armored archer crouching on a nearby roof. The street is quiet and empty to a suspicious degree, actually, considering it's the middle of the day. The locals must have sensed trouble. Hanzo is no stranger to this particular sixth sense; it's probably hard-coded in the DNA of every denizen of Hanamura by now.

"Got it." McCree's voice crackles through the comm just as Hanzo starts thinking about joining him out of sheer boredom. "Entrance to the tunnels. Two guards."

"What is it with all the tunnels? Wait for me," Hanzo commands, ignoring the sardonic 'yes _, sir'_ that follows.

It's good to have the boots back. Torbjörn has delivered on the promise of improvements, and a jump off the roof straight onto the street feels easier than it used to, the landing soft enough that he overcompensates for it, momentarily thrown off balance. It feels good to be back in his element, too, doing what he does best again, even if he's forced to do it in company. And as reluctant as he is to admit it, Reyes might have had a point about compatibility: it shouldn't be so easy to work with a partner after years of operating solo, and yet.

Although, McCree out of his jeans and flannels and in something resembling tactical gear is a little _too_ distracting.

McCree waits inside the abandoned warehouse, flattened against a wall. With all the windows boarded shut and the only light coming from occasional cracks, he's just another dark shape in the twilight. Somehow he's managed to sneak up unnoticed to two armed and vigilant men; will wonders never cease? He nods at Hanzo, points at his chest, points at the guard on the right, waits.

Hanzo crouches, carefully sets the bow down on the dirty floor and nods in confirmation. McCree raises a hand with extended fingers: three, two, one.

The guards don't even manage to raise their guns. Something inside Hanzo purrs with satisfaction at the nearly perfect synchronicity of the takedown.

McCree takes point without asking. Hanzo briefly considers arguing — he's not followed anyone's lead in a very long time — but watching McCree actually being stealthy is new and not unpleasant, so he shrugs and follows, past a solid metal grate, secured by a now-destroyed code lock, and down the narrow stairs. There's another grate halfway down and a reinforced door at the bottom, lock neatly cut out this time, and finally they find themselves in a dark, brick-lined tunnel, sparsely lit by dirty industrial lamps.

It's damp, hot and quiet, the only discernible sounds a low, distant hum — generators? — and a dull buzz of the lamps, and if it wasn't for the guards and obvious signs of intrusion on the way, Hanzo would think they've arrived to the wrong address.

"Let's not have this place collapse down on us this time," he says, squinting suspiciously at the low arch of the ceiling. The tunnel is nothing like the one in the secret facility, but the memory of being nearly buried alive is more insistent than he'd like to admit.

"I'll make sure to forward your request to Talon," McCree deadpans, looking around. "Hear anything?"

The tunnel stretches out in two directions, both equally dark and nondescript. Hanzo lets the demon bleed through a little and shudders, wincing, as the damp smell ratchets right up to nauseating: there must be a sewer somewhere nearby.

McCree makes an aborted half-step forward. "You alright?"

"This place _reeks_ ," Hanzo mutters on an exhale. "Your friend dwells in interesting places."

"She ain't my friend, and I'm pretty sure she teleports in and out."

" _Teleports?_ " Hanzo asks, a little higher in pitch than intended.

McCree gives him a satisfied grin. "Yep. Ask Winston about it if you're feelin' brave. Somethin' about a stolen prototype."

Hanzo looks away from that smug expression, focuses and listens, breathing as shallowly as possible. Slowly, pinpricks of distinct sounds start piercing through the background noise: footsteps, something heavy being dragged across concrete, an occasional clang of metal against metal, crackle of a radio. Talon, set up and not expecting company.

"I hear them. About two hundred meters to the right, I think. Hard to tell with the echoes. Is Sombra one of the bad guys, then?"

McCree starts walking along the unlit side of the tunnel, carefully stepping around debris and trash littering the floor. "Not strictly bad, but not good either," he says after a moment. "She trades information for a living. Wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her. Be careful what you say around her, she'll sell you out to your family in a blink of an eye."

"They already know where I am."

"Not the point," McCree says without stopping, an exasperated lilt to his voice.

Hanzo huffs. "Warning acknowledged. She's your friend, you can do the talking. I'll just stand there and look intimidating."

"Acquaintance, if anything. And nothing intimidates Sombra, my creepy eyes included, so good luck with that."

Hanzo smirks at the dirty floor of the tunnel. "Challenge accepted."

It doesn't take long for the distant sounds to get loud enough to reach human ears. Not even five minutes pass before their tunnel opens into another one, darker, taller and lined with concrete instead of brick; most likely the path to the bunker, or maybe already a part of it. The sounds are almost clear now. Talon must be very close.

McCree crouches beside the wall, head slightly tilted, listening. "Noisy fuckers. Should be able to walk right up to them," he says after a moment, unholstering the revolver and turning to Hanzo with a grin. "Shall we?"

The smile is not as wide or bright as the one outside the workshop, and the predatory glint in McCree's eye makes it too sharp to be pleasant, but it's close and unrestrained and just for him this time, and Hanzo's mouth goes dry anyway.

* * *

He really should have known it was all too easy.

"Your friend forgot to mention the strongpoint in front of the door," he growls, ducking away from a burst of bullets pelting the corner and the spray of splinters that follows. The noise would be deafening if not for the noise cancellation of their earpieces; even now they're barely keeping up, the algorithms confused by the echoes bouncing around the tunnel.

"Guess the door doesn't have a peephole. Also, she's not my friend. How many did you count?"

"Three left, three right, didn't get a good look at the center."

"Let me have a peek."

"Now? You'll get a bullet to the head."

"Wasn't born yesterday," McCree says mildly, pushing closer and nudging him with a shoulder. "If you'd be so kind…?"

Hanzo resists the petulant urge to elbow him in return as they switch. McCree stands up, waits for a second, two, and rapidly glances around the corner; Hanzo's mouth goes bitter with sudden fear, instinctive and irrational — but McCree backs out instantly, unharmed, away from another long burst of suppressive fire.

"Three," he says, dropping to a crouch next to Hanzo and trailing off in a cough. "Damn. Should've brought a bandanna. Any ideas yet?"

Hanzo makes a mental note to thank Torbjörn for his own mask, currently proving its worth with every new cloud of dust in the air, and considers available options. The list is unpleasantly short. He could try to time the suppressive fire, roll out and take down one or two before their reflexes caught up — but the enemy isn't dumb enough to reload simultaneously, and even if McCree did the same, the entrance to the chamber is way too exposed for the odds to be in their favor.

"I could shift and charge them," he says reluctantly, "but I'm not actually bulletproof. Or immortal, for that matter. There's a good chance I won't make it to the barricade. Stun grenade?"

McCree spits and wipes his mouth with his forearm before replying. There's dust in his hair and beard already, a thin layer of it settling across the shoulders of his jacket. "Nope. They're protected, we're not. Would do more harm to us than them."

Hanzo huffs. "Frag grenade?"

McCree smirks. "Thought we had an agreement about no more ceilings droppin' on our heads."

"You're not going to cause structural damage with a single grenade."

"Could damage the door. Either way, the point is moot unless you have a frag, because I don't."

One of the Talon soldiers starts yelling something, probably insults or demands of surrender, or both. Hanzo tunes him out, struck with a new idea. "You could try talking to them. Get them distracted enough to stop firing, and I should be able to take a few down."

McCree outright snorts now, shaking his head. "I can talk shit with the best of 'em, but it ain't gonna make them miss their shots."

"If you have a better idea, then please, do share," Hanzo mutters, exasperated.

There is one solution McCree's not aware of. The clan's guardian spirits Hanzo still carries would _definitely_ end the impasse. He's only asked for their aid a handful of times since Genji's murder, though, and always as a last resort, when everything else failed and his life was on the line. Calling upon them for something as trivial as a few goons behind a barricade would be — excessive, to say the least. Probably sacrilegious. And if they actually deigned to answer such a call, McCree or Sombra could fall victim to their hunger; the spirits are a force of nature, and once unleashed can't be stopped easily.

Suddenly he sees it, as clear as if it's already happened: McCree curled up against the wall, wreathed in blue flame, screaming as he burns alive, until he can't scream anymore and all that's left of him is a gurgling, twitching, charred husk.

The nausea hits without warning. Hanzo shudders, jerkily drags the mask down and tries to breathe through it, only to choke on the acrid dust instead. He can't let this happen now, not under fire and not in McCree's presence. Tipping forward onto one knee and hanging his head helps a little. _Don't show distress, don't let the coughing transition into retching, breathe through the teeth, get yourself together —_

McCree asks something that doesn't register through the ringing in his ears, then repeats it in a tone that sounds distinctly alarmed. Hanzo swallows and tries to think of a sufficiently dismissive reply, only to swear when sudden, sharp pain slices across his upper arm. The lurch backwards is entirely instinctual, uncontrolled enough that the back of his head hits the wall, and the double shock of pain finally clears his head. When he opens his eyes to assess the damage — _not the arm, anything but the arm_ — McCree's already kneeling in front of him, metal fingers closing tight around his forearm. Hanzo doesn't resist, slumping with relief: it's just a scrape. Whatever hit him left a long, thin cut along the edge of the deltoid towards the bicep, already bleeding, but clean and shallow enough it shouldn't even need stitches. A splinter of concrete or a ricochet. Unfortunate, but ultimately lucky: enough to provide a much needed distraction, but not enough to cause harm.

McCree looks up from the wound, still gripping his arm uncomfortably tight. "You alright?"

"It's nothing. Just a cut." The answer comes out a little more snappish than intended, but they're still under fire, he's narrowly avoided making a fool of himself, and it's just dawning on him that McCree is kneeling between his legs, holding his forearm in a bruising grip and staring at him with unsettling intensity.

"I don't mean this." McCree gives his arm a demonstrative lift, as if he needed the explanation. "I saw you space out right there."

"I said it's nothing," he growls, yanking his hand out of the metal vise. "I'm _fine_. Focus on the job, before they blow us up or call for reinforcements."

"O-kay," McCree drawls, narrowing his eyes. "Okay then," he repeats, picking up the revolver. "Fine."

"What —"

This time the change isn't gradual. There's no slow bleed like before. McCree tips his head back slightly, exhales, closes his eyes, and when they open a second later they're red. It's the same fiery red as before, but even more shocking for its sudden appearance. The shamefully Pavlovian reaction Hanzo seems to have developed to the sight clashes with their current situation so violently that he gets dizzy from the cognitive dissonance alone.

McCree smiles and pats him on the knee. The smile is wide, toothy and unnervingly out of place, considering the circumstances. "Guess I'm done bein' reasonable," he says lightly, with a wink that would be unsettling even without the red eyes, and stands up abruptly, giving the revolver a flashy spin.

The enemy chooses that moment to send another spray of bullets at their corner, already crumbled down to rebar in some places. McCree turns and takes a step towards it, the hand with the gun hanging loosely at his side, looking for all the world like he's going for a stroll. Hanzo watches in disbelief, waiting for him to stop — only to realize too late that he really is about to walk out into the open, directly in front of an enemy blockade, and right into the line of fire. 

He doesn't think. He just lunges, heart in his throat —

— and lands gracelessly on his ass, breath punched out of his lungs, thrown back by an invisible wall of scorching heat.

McCree either doesn't notice or pays him no mind. Doesn't even turn his head. Two long strides and he's past the corner, raising his revolver. Hanzo scrambles to his knees, drags the mask back into place, catches his breath and watches him walk inside, seemingly unscathed, even though Talon is now laying down a crossfire so thick he all but disappears in the cloud of dust and splinters. The report of the revolver stands out even in the din of automatic rifle fire: one, two, three shots, a second of ringing silence — and then complete chaos erupts as everyone starts shooting at once.

Hanzo crouches beside the wall with an arrow nocked, counts to five, and does _not_ ask himself what the hell he's doing before running in.

Maybe it's denial, or maybe it's because Talon recruits its foot soldiers for their physical, not cognitive qualities, but it takes them a surprisingly long time to realize that the red-eyed, grinning menace that just walked in is somehow impervious to bullets. One of them tries to circle around McCree, having completely missed Hanzo's appearance, and the arrow reaches him a split second before the shot. McCree takes down two more and reloads nonchalantly, right in the middle of the room, in front of the half-circle of barricades, unfazed by gunfire that should have reduced him to a pulp by now — and that, apparently, finally clues in the remaining three soldiers to the futility of their efforts.

Two of them try to run. Unfortunately for them, Hanzo stands between them and the only available escape. There's no point wasting arrows: he simply trips one up with the bow, clotheslines the other one and knocks him out with a well placed kick, and looks up just in time to see McCree turn towards them and take aim.

"Stop," he says sharply.

McCree looks at him, eyes like glowing embers in the cloud of dust and smoke, and smirks. For a second Hanzo is sure he's going to get shot.

He lets out the breath he's been holding when the hand with the revolver slowly falls down — and then McCree spins and shoots. The Talon soldier aiming at Hanzo above the edge of the barricade drops like a rock. The one that hasn't been knocked out yet lets out a whimper of panic and tries to crawl away. McCree turns towards the source of the sound.

"Don't," Hanzo says, dropping to one knee. "He's harmless now."

"Some assassin you are," McCree mutters, holstering the revolver with a flourish.

The panicked man barely puts up a fight when pulled into a chokehold. "You're welcome," Hanzo murmurs into his ear before pressing down on his carotids and waiting out the struggle. Ensuring that both lucky survivors are thoroughly unconscious doesn't take long; when he finally stands up, dusting off his hands, McCree is behind the central barricade, leaning against it with his arms folded, looking down.

He's not looking at the ground, Hanzo realizes, but at the corpses at his feet. The ones he steps over on the way are all clean headshots, clean deaths; there is no reason to find that more unsettling than a bloody, messy aftermath of a normal fight, but somehow it is, enough to give him goosebumps. Or maybe it's just the combination of the sudden silence and the stench of blood and smoke in the air.

McCree looks up. His eyes are back to brown and the unsettling smile is gone, replaced by a grim frown.

"Are you —" Hanzo begins, just to realize the stupidity of the question: McCree's expression screams that he's not okay at all. "You've been holding out on me," he says instead.

McCree's mouth twists in an unhappy grimace. "Later," he says quietly, and before Hanzo can protest, he pushes away from the barricade, straightening up, frown suddenly gone, features smoothed out. "You can come out now!" he shouts, turning towards the plain-looking, unassuming door in the back of the room.

The door turns out to be far from plain. Hanzo can discern the dull thuds of at least four sets of heavy bolts sliding back, and when it finally opens, it's not that much thinner than the one Winston had to unlock to let them out of the underground trap.

" _Hola, diablito_ ," says the purple-haired woman, leaning against the doorframe and smiling crookedly in a way that's eerily similar to McCree's usual smirk. "I knew you'd help a lady out."

It's not just hair, actually. Everything about her is in gradients of purple, from the LED strips of her implants to her contact lenses. Clothes, funny five-toed shoes, even the nasty bruise under her left eye, edging onto the cheekbone — all purple.

McCree chuckles. "I see no ladies here, but you're welcome anyway. Nice shiner."

" _Coma mierda_ , McCree. How's the new Shimada settling in?"

True to their agreement, Hanzo limits himself to an expressionless stare, resisting the urge to show teeth: if she knows who he is, then she knows about the demon anyway.

"Scaring the locals, racking up a killcount, the usual," McCree replies, matching her light tone. "New York life. You know how it is."

"About as talkative as his brother, I see," Sombra says pleasantly. Hanzo keeps staring at her left ear, face as grimly neutral as he can keep it. "And about as interesting, too. Fine. Let me grab my stuff. And come in, don't stand in that mess. Just don't get blood on my floor."

"Nah." McCree leans against the wall next to the door and hooks his thumbs behind his belt. "I'd rather get out of here sooner than later. We'll wait."

Sombra shrugs and disappears back inside. As soon as the door closes behind her, McCree taps his throat and shakes his head: _not safe to talk_. Hanzo mirrors his position on the other side of the door and rolls his eyes slightly: _I know_. The temptation to start asking questions is there, of course, and he has so many questions, starting with McCree's apparent and sudden _invulnerability to bullets_ — but if Sombra is anything like M, then the only safe topic of conversation around her is the weather. They don't have time for conversation anyway, because not even a minute passes before she's back, a stuffed backpack over one shoulder, a heavily modded SMG slung over the other. Both purple, of course. Only when she looks at him and raises an eyebrow, Hanzo realizes he's smirking and schools his features back into neutrality.

"You should probably clean this up, unless you're burning the place," McCree remarks casually as the door closes behind her.

"Cleanup crew is on the way. Thanks for not chucking a grenade in here," she says, gingerly stepping around the carnage. "I hope you landed somewhere nearby, because these shoes aren't built for trekking."

McCree snorts. "Wouldn't dream of making you walk. The car's a couple blocks away."

"This is why I like working with you, _diablito_."

"I have a name, _muchacha_."

Hanzo takes point without a word. The chances that Talon called for reinforcements are slim, but not nonexistent, and the way McCree and Sombra are bickering now, one could think they're friends on a stroll in a park or something. They're not even bothering to be quiet. The stealthy, graceful McCree is gone, replaced by one that walks loudly, talks even louder, and when Hanzo glances over his shoulder, turns out to be all but _swaggering_ down the tunnel. All that's missing is the hat to complete the effect. And considering that McCree claimed him and Sombra were barely acquaintances, he's sure being friendly now, all smiles and chuckles and teasing. Hanzo is tempted to snap at them and point out that sound carries really well in these tunnels, but bites his tongue at the last moment.

At least one person needs to remain professional in here.

* * *

Sombra stops short of sitting in McCree's lap, but just barely. She still takes the seat next to him and unashamedly leans against his shoulder. They've spent the whole ride back chatting like old friends, going as far as reminiscing about 'old times' and completely ignoring Hanzo's presence, and did not shut up even while boarding the jet. Now Hanzo is forced to watch them, because of course McCree chose to sit directly opposite him this time, and his jaw is starting to ache from the effort of keeping it unclenched.

At least he's got an unexpected ally in Tracer. The look she gave Sombra as she walked on board could curdle milk, and she's still glaring daggers from the galley, body language so hostile that there has to be history behind it. Hanzo resolves to ask about it as soon as the hacker is safely out of earshot. And as soon as they've combed the jet for bugs.

"Alright. Spill," McCree says, finally interrupting the pointless chatter. "We'll drop you off wherever you want afterwards."

"Oh, I'm going with you," Sombra replies lazily, theatrically examining her nails.

McCree lets out a bark of a laugh. "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. It's not something we can talk about in an unsecured space, anyway."

"I am not letting you within a mile of the tower."

Sombra sits up straight just to level an unimpressed stare at McCree. " _Please_. I have detailed plans of that building. I could walk in from the street if I wanted to. Athena's good, but she's spreading herself too thin. I might even help her improve her anomaly detection algorithms. For free!"

"Now listen here —"

"No, you listen." She prods his arm with one long purple nail. "You have a big problem, and you know I'm the only person qualified to help you. There's nothing you can lose by having me in your sacred tower. I already know all I need to know about every single person in there, including your angry demon friend, and as of today afternoon I'm _really_ motivated to help you. Make use of it."

"I know how many people you've double-crossed before," McCree says through his teeth.

"Ah, but I never double-crossed _you_ , did I?"

"Is that supposed to make me —"

"Oh for fuck's sake, let's just go," Tracer interrupts sharply. "I don't want to spend the night in here. She's going to hack her way in whether we let her or not."

"See, Lena knows what it's all about," Sombra says, saccharine-sweet.

"That's Tracer to you." Tracer pushes away from the coffee cupboard she's been leaning against and turns on her heel. "I'm starting the engines," she announces loudly, marching towards the cockpit.

Sombra is right, and Hanzo hates it. She's already casually demonstrated her ability to keep tabs on Overwatch, to a frankly disturbing degree, and she's a unique asset they can't afford losing to Talon — but he still hates having her onboard for a whole slew of reasons. There's no way McCree will talk about what happened in her presence, for one. And Tracer probably has good reasons to hate her guts. And, last but not least, if he has to listen to their prattling about _good old times_ again, there will be property damage. Or violence. Or both.

"I gotta piss," McCree mutters, heaving himself out of the seat. At least he's shut up for now, and stopped acting like meeting Sombra was the highlight of his week. "Keep an eye on her."

It's more of a command than a request, and issued without even a glance in Hanzo's direction. To think that two hours ago Hanzo was busy fantasizing about sitting next to him and fucking _touching knees_ , like a teenager with a crush. He realizes he's started clenching his teeth after all. Takes a long breath, holds it. The faint throbbing in his temples threatens to develop into a full blown headache; he should probably drink something to stave it off, especially that engine noise is not likely to improve matters.

"Relax, _guapo_. I'm not your competition."

Hanzo is suddenly way too tired to stop the incredulous glare, but makes a valiant attempt anyway, just because of Sombra's self-satisfied smirk.

"I mean it. If even half of what I heard about you is true, you're a match made in heaven. Or hell." The smirk grows even more obnoxious. "I'd be surprised you're not fucking already if I didn't know McCree for as long as I have."

"Who says we aren't?" he challenges, folding his arms tighter and raising his chin.

"You're not. You wouldn't be as high-strung if you were, and he wouldn't try so hard to keep my attention off you." Sombra yawns, pulls her legs up and stretches out across the seats, wiggling a little to get comfortable. "McCree doesn't sleep with people he likes," she adds, resting her head on a bent arm and closing her eyes. "So you can stop with the laser glare now."

Hanzo decides it's definitely time to get that drink.

The cold water tastes heavenly and washes off the lingering taste of dust and adrenaline. He's halfway through the bottle, leaning against the minifridge and silently berating himself for getting this dehydrated, when McCree comes out of the bathroom. There's not a lot of maneuvering space between the toilet and the galley, but after that barked order Hanzo feels just uncooperative enough to stay where he is, leaving McCree a small gap to awkwardly squeeze through.

McCree doesn't comment on it, just brushes past with eyes downcast. Now that he's stopped smiling like an idiot, he looks at least as tired as Hanzo feels. Whatever he did down in the bunker, it must have taken effort; he's probably just as dehydrated, if not more.

Hanzo sighs at himself, drains the rest of the bottle, drops it into the trash and opens the fridge to get a new one.

"Gettin' a li'l too comfortable there," McCree drawls, standing over Sombra and his former seat.

Sombra gives him the finger without opening her eyes. "I've been awake for almost twenty-four hours, during which I was ambushed, assaulted and nearly abducted," she mumbles. "Sit somewhere else."

McCree stands over her for a moment longer, then sighs, shoulders slumping, walks over to the other side of the compartment and drops heavily into a seat. It's the very last seat on that side. As far from Hanzo's as physically possible without leaving the compartment altogether.

 _Fuck you too_ , Hanzo thinks, equal parts childishly angry and disappointed with himself.

The jet lurches into motion. McCree jumps comically when a cold, wet bottle lands in his lap. Hanzo collects his backpack without sparing him another glance, checks that the bow case is secure in the rack and escapes to the cockpit. Tracer doesn't acknowledge him, flipping switches and talking to the air control. Probably for the best. Hanzo sinks into one of the chairs, folds his arms tightly to ward off the cold and closes his eyes.

* * *

Despite the late hour, Reyes is waiting for them on the roof. Sombra doesn't warrant the same escort as Hanzo did, apparently: the single armed guard is only there to relieve her of the SMG, it seems, which she gives up with a smirk that speaks volumes of how much of a token gesture it is. She's almost respectful towards Reyes, though, and Reyes isn't nearly as hostile as Tracer, but not as friendly as McCree either. Listening to their conversation reminds Hanzo of the occasions when the Shimada clan allied with another to take a common enemy down a peg.

They don't even sit down for a debrief. McCree gives Reyes a terse summary of the events in the time it takes them to get from the landing pad to the living floor, conveniently omitting the part where he sauntered into enemy crossfire. The decision to bring Sombra in isn't even mentioned. Tracer disappears the moment she's allowed to, still glowering as if she's personally offended by Sombra's presence, and Hanzo's suspicion that McCree must have called in ahead of their arrival is confirmed when Reyes produces a thin yellow bracelet and tosses it to Sombra.

"Your temporary room. I assume you know your way around," he says wryly. "I also assume you know that if you try messing with the network, Athena, or anything at all, I'll personally throw you off the roof."

" _Muchas gracias._ " Sombra catches the key and winks with the unbruised eye. "I'll make sure to be discreet when I poke around."

"I'll keep an eye on her, Commander," Athena pipes up from a nearby speaker.

"That's assuming you'll have time between taking out the trash and washing the dishes," Sombra mutters.

"I'm afraid I don't understand that metaphor."

"Oh, don't play stupid —"

"Go away, Sombra," Reyes interrupts gruffly. "Athena, you're authorized to monitor her whereabouts at your own discretion. Conference room A at nine A.M. sharp, everyone. Jack brought back big news. And, Sombra," he adds as she shoulders the backpack and unerringly turns in the direction of the living quarters, "go see Mercy in the morning if you need to."

Sombra turns and smiles, walking backwards. "Aww, you care," she singsongs. "It's just a bruise. I'll be pretty again in no time."

"Don't fish for compliments, and go see Mercy. That's an order."

Sombra bursts out laughing and disappears behind a corner.

Reyes sighs. "You two, go get some sleep. I need to find Winston and, ah, prepare him for our unexpected guest."

"Good thing he can't throw _you_ into a wall," McCree mutters.

"Don't sass me, or I'll give the task to you. And — good job, boys. Don't expect any downtime. Shit is about to hit the fan."

Hanzo is not likely to get used to being called a boy or getting clapped on the shoulder anytime soon. Judging by the sly look Reyes gives him, he's perfectly aware of that fact. It throws him off enough that he almost lets McCree give him the slip; one moment he's staring at Reyes in dismay, the second McCree is rounding the corner. Joke's on him, because Hanzo is not above a little jog to catch up.

"So," he says conversationally behind McCree's back, after a glance to ensure that the corridor is empty. "Ready to talk about how you're suddenly bulletproof?"

"I don't have to tell you anythin'," McCree mutters obstinately, but at least he slows down, as if acknowledging he's been caught.

"You don't _have_ to, no. But Reyes is dead set on making us work together, and it'd be nice to know the capabilities of my partner before one of us dies because I misjudged the situation!" Hanzo realizes he's raised his voice and dials it down with some effort. "I nearly ran out after you down there. Would have been nice to know you weren't actually committing suicide."

McCree sighs heavily and finally stops, turning towards him. "You know what else would've been nice to know? That my partner would silently freak out in the middle of a job."

Hanzo swallows a retort, ignores the twist of guilt in his stomach and takes a steadying breath. "I didn't exactly _plan_ to do that."

"You think I did?"

They're nearly at the door to his room now. McCree slumps against the wall, shoulders drawn up defensively and hands in his pockets. He's dusty and disheveled, even more so in contrast with the pristine cleanliness of the corridor, and suddenly he looks miserable enough that Hanzo has an unexpected, wild urge to comfort him. Pull him into the room, _hug him_ , and then push him against the wall and kiss him until that expression melts away.

And he can't even blame it on the aftereffects of the shift. Way too much time has passed for that excuse to work.

The silence drags out. McCree finally breaks eye contact, looking to the side. "Tomorrow before the meeting, okay? Let's meet in the kitchen and sort this out. Both ways."

"Fine," Hanzo says weakly.

McCree's eyes snap back to his, as if he's surprised at the concession, and immediately slide away again. "Okay," he says. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow, then."

Hanzo watches him take an awkward step back, turn and walk away. Watches until he reaches the door of his room, casts a last glance in Hanzo's direction, looks away hastily and disappears inside. _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself when finally inside his own room, resting his forehead against the cold, smooth surface of the door for just a moment. Thinking about it can wait until tomorrow. Now he just needs to sleep.

* * *

Hanzo shows up in the kitchen strategically early. The all-hands meeting at nine means that everyone is going to come looking for breakfast shortly before, not to mention the inevitable queue for coffee that will happen, but at quarter to eight, there's only a few people milling around. Zarya with her mountain of protein, Mei nodding off over a cup of tea… Genji with a stack of pancakes.

Genji has always loved good food. It's a bitter relief to know that Hanzo didn't manage to take it away from him.

The amount of syrup Genji dumps onto his pancakes immediately invalidates his license to make fun of Hanzo's sweet tooth. Eventually he looks up, blinks at the sight of Hanzo frozen in the door and smiles cautiously. "Good morning, brother. You should try the pancakes," he says, just a little too casual. "They're always the first to go."

Hanzo responds with something noncommittal and dodges the conversation. It's too early in the morning to face the consequences of his actions. At least Genji gives him a wry, knowing half-smile that makes it a little easier to breathe, and he does follow the suggestion and gets the pancakes. They're good. Genji gives him a thumbs-up from his table before turning his attention to his phone.

It occurs to him when he's grabbing his second coffee that he might have appeared too early, after all. McCree is still nowhere to be seen, and there's not much to do in the lunchroom, other than watching the muted news channel or talking to people. Genji's gone by now, but the room is slowly filling and conversations about the upcoming meeting are starting up, and Hanzo's feeling even less inclined to socialize than usual. In the end, he employs Genji's tactic and hunches over his phone. It's enough to spare him from anything more than an occasional 'good morning'.

McCree appears in the door at half past eight, scanning the room with a bagel between his teeth and the cactus mug in hand. He looks much better than last night, rested and clean, hair still visibly damp from a shower; unfortunately, the contrast reminds Hanzo about the ridiculous impulse he's been doing his level best to forget, and that in turn sends heat creeping up the back of his neck. He consoles himself with the thought that he was tired, too, and possibly still affected by the shift, and probably still in minor shock after a live demonstration of yet another of McCree's surprise powers, and generally not at his intellectual or emotional best. He's still mostly human. He's allowed an occasional moment of weakness.

McCree wordlessly inclines his head towards the door behind him, turns around and walks out. Hanzo feels only a little ridiculous for instinctively casting a discreet look around the room before standing up and following.

"We can take one of the other meeting rooms," McCree says when they walk out of the kitchen, straight to the point. "There's, like, four of them for some reason, and no one ever goes past the first one."

"Good morning to you too," Hanzo says pleasantly.

"Would be better if I wasn't facing a goddamn interrogation," McCree fires back immediately. 

"You're the one who wanted to postpone it until morning."

"I was tired, goddammit."

"Then you don't have a right to complain now."

"Do you always have to have the last word?"

The chuckle gets out before Hanzo can contain it: McCree's sudden helplessly exasperated tone is nothing but hilarious. "You do know I can't answer that with anything but 'yes', right?" he asks, unable to hold back a wry smile, and glances up at McCree's face when he doesn't get an answer. McCree is staring at him like he's grown a second head, and for some reason that's even more funny. Hanzo looks away and bites his cheek, trying not to laugh. There's a chance that Genji spiked the pancakes with something, and it's more believable with each passing second. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's done it.

By the time they get to the meeting rooms, he's mostly managed to get the amusement back under control. McCree leads him to the last in the row of glass doors. The room is much smaller than the other one and just as empty and bereft of personality, but at least it's finished in creamy orange rather than mint, and the color scheme is cheerful enough to uphold Hanzo's unexpected good mood.

"Alright." McCree sits down, puts both feet on the table, crosses his legs and holds the coffee mug in front of him like a shield. "You first."

Hanzo swallows the childish _why me?_ , but it must show on his face anyway, because McCree raises his eyebrows and sticks a metal finger out in his direction. "You freaked out first, you spill first. Thought I'd have to carry you out of there for a moment."

"It wasn't _that_ bad."

"You blanked out, dropped out of cover and nearly got shot." McCree glances meaningfully at the scabbed-over line on Hanzo's arm. "You're lucky it was just shrapnel."

"I was far from any risk of getting shot — yes, I will explain if you _let me_ ," he grouses. McCree shuts his mouth and makes an exaggerated gesture: _go on_. It's still surprising to see how smoothly that seemingly-crude prosthetic palm moves. Hanzo looks away from it and at the dragon winding down his own arm, silent and still. "Has Genji told you about the family spirits?"

"You mean the dragons? Yeah. I saw him summon a big-ass ghost dragon once. I'm guessin' that's yours." McCree nods in the direction of his tattoo.

"The tattoo is a bond. I can communicate through it and call upon the spirits in a time of need, but there's no guarantee they will answer."

McCree hums in acknowledgement. "So if you —" he wiggles the prosthetic hand meaningfully — "would the bond break?"

"Yes." Hanzo takes a deep breath. "Down at that chokepoint I considered asking for their help, and it triggered a… bad memory. It doesn't happen often. Usually in dreams. Shouldn't be an issue again."

The image does flicker briefly in his mind's eye, not as vivid this time, just a suggestion of fire and screams between one blink and the next — but a fresh, bright memory of Genji with his mouth full of pancake follows, and McCree is in front of him, alive and watching him way too closely for someone who complained about interrogations five minutes before.

"So," McCree says slowly, still with that unsettlingly shrewd look. "In case it does happen again, what do I do?"

"Well. Pain works." McCree's expression shifts to comically taken aback. "Or any sufficient distraction, really. A physical reminder of where I am."

"Right. Next time you're gettin' a fist to the face, then," McCree drawls.

Hanzo quirks a disdainful eyebrow and raises his chin in a challenge. "You can _try_."

McCree just smirks in response and leans a little further back in the chair, self-assured, unintimidated. Still an asshole. For a second Hanzo is greatly tempted to shift just to increase his threat factor — fangs and milky white eyes usually do the job — but then, of course, he remembers that McCree's apparent response to his demon form is about as unusual as his own towards the red eyes. What a pair they make.

And speaking of the eyes…

"Your turn," he says. That kills McCree's smirk more efficiently than any attempts at intimidation. "You said the eyes didn't do anything. So what was _that_?"

McCree sighs into the mug. "It's the other way round. The eyes were just a side effect."

Hanzo raises his eyebrows and gestures at him to continue.

"It's… another gift from my _father_ , I guess." McCree's upper lip curls slightly on the word. "I don't use it much, unless I have to."

"You walked into gunfire that should have killed you on the spot," Hanzo says disbelievingly. "Not a single bullet touched you. And you don't use it much?!"

McCree gives him a flat look."Your abilities are not the only ones that come with a downside, you know."

"What kind of a downside outweighs complete invulnerability?"

"It's not _complete_ , stop exaggerating. 'S just a shield." McCree hides behind the coffee cup for a moment, huffs, lowers it, revealing a wry smile. "Look. There's no way I can explain it without makin' it sound melodramatic as hell."

"I'll try not to laugh. Much."

"Fuck you." Another sigh. "So there's a… part of me, for lack of a better word." McCree winces and looks away. "I hate how dumb that sounds. It's weird and fucked up, so I hold it back. Kind of like anger management on steroids. What I did, what you saw, was me letting it go, or letting _myself_ go, I guess. If I go all out, I can shield myself from harm. And do a few other tricks that, uh, ain't applicable in a combat situation."

"That wasn't all that bad," Hanzo soothes him, smirking. "Sounded very familiar, in fact."

"See, that's where you're wrong. No matter how often you do your demon thing, you're still yourself after you change back, right? Each time _I_ let go, I feel like I come back just a li'l less human. And each time it gets a li'l harder to control." McCree glances at him, huffs. "I dunno, I didn't ask to be a freak, okay?"

Hanzo processes this for a while. "That _was_ dramatic," he says finally.

McCree snorts. "Yeah, well, I fuckin' warned you."

"If it's any consolation, you seem boringly normal to me. Most of the time, at least."

"Yeah. _Seem_ being the operative word," McCree mutters stubbornly.

"And being normal is overrated, anyway. You wouldn't be here if you were _normal_." Hanzo goes as far as putting air quotes around the word, but McCree just looks away again, jaw set. "Fine. If it's so bad, then why did you do it? We could have figured out a different solution."

"Like what? They were entrenched in there. Could've called for reinforcements at any moment and we'd be dead, you said it yourself."

"Yes, because I didn't know you could become bulletproof on demand! If I knew, I wouldn't have pushed for time as much."

McCree shrugs. "What difference would that have made? They still could've flanked us."

"Yes, and _if_ they did, _then_ you could go bulletproof," Hanzo explains patiently. "You could have waited. That's my—"

"What about you, then?" McCree growls suddenly, putting the mug back on the table with enough force that the coffee splashes out. "What would _you_ do in that situation, huh? Except die?"

Hanzo stares. McCree stares back, frozen in place except for erratically flaring nostrils. The thin red rims of his irises fade back to brown; a second passes, two, then he blinks, slumps in the chair and folds his arms tightly.

"See, that's what I mean," he says through his teeth. "And I swear it's twice as hard to control around you, for some reason. Probably because you're fuckin' aggravating."

"So you did it to, what, to — _protect me_?" The concept is so outlandish, Hanzo doesn't even try to purge the incredulity from his voice.

"Aw, hell." McCree deflates even more, picks up the mug, makes a face at the wet ring it's left on the table. "Look. We're supposed to work together, right? Partners and whatnot. I can't just — I can always save my ass at the cost of my immortal fuckin' soul or whatever, but I can't save yours."

Hanzo just gapes at him, at a complete loss for words.

"You zoned out in there, we didn't have any better options, I had the means to break the impasse, so I did."

He can't even remember the last time someone attempted to _protect him_. If anyone actually did. He'd been expected to adequately defend himself even as a child, and then he was the one doing the protecting, and then, for the last couple of years, either breaking _through_ protection or getting around it. With nearly a hundred percent success rate, too. The very concept of a professional assassin requiring protection is ridiculous and more than a little insulting. Hostilities aside, is McCree's faith in his competence really that low?

McCree lets out a brief laugh, rolls his eyes. "Stop lookin' at me like that. I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart. It's my damn job."

Hanzo searches for an appropriately indignant response, but the sudden burning feeling in his chest, a weird mix of embarrassment and gratitude, saps the fire out of everything he comes up with. "I can fend for myself, McCree," he manages finally when the silence becomes too much.

"What part of _workin' together_ did you not understand?"

"I understand, I just didn't need your intervention. Especially if it meant doing something you hate that much."

McCree huffs, smiles strangely. "Ah, but see, that's the thing. I don't hate it. I _like_ it. That's the whole problem."

The look he gives Hanzo is clearly expectant, as if he's waiting for a reaction. Hanzo stares back. The revelation does put everything in a different light, yes, and it's surprising, sure, but it's mostly that crooked, cold, _dangerous_ smile that makes his mind grind to a screeching halt.

"Huh," he says intelligently.

McCree raises his eyebrows. "Just 'huh'?"

The challenging tone does not improve the situation. Hanzo takes a long breath, does his best to ignore the treacherous bloom of warmth in his belly and gathers his thoughts. "You're talking to an assassin," he answers finally. "I don't hate my job either. And I've probably done worse things than you."

"And you enjoyed them?" McCree's smile fades a little, and his tone becomes sharper; it's definitely a challenge now. Hanzo suddenly feels like he's winning this conversation, even though he wasn't aware there was a contest to begin with.

He deliberately relaxes in the chair, cocks an eyebrow. "Some of them? Definitely."

McCree's watching him with narrowed eyes now, as if he's trying to detect a lie. "Really," he says flatly. "I just told you that I like lettin' go of my freaky side. The one with the creepy eyes that gets off on violence. Oh, and accidentally mind controls people sometimes. And you're cool with it?"

"And I like being a demon. Did you expect me to clutch my pearls or something?"

McCree visibly grinds his teeth. "And that little scene at Sombra's place didn't creep you out at all, huh?"

Hanzo pretends to think about it. "I think the creepiest thing was your accuracy, actually," he says truthfully.

Both of their phones ping almost simultaneously: a quiet reminder of the meeting. McCree hisses a curse and his eyes bleed into red, the smile coming back sharp. "And this?" he asks quietly, abruptly lowering both legs to the floor and standing up, looming over Hanzo. "Still not creepy? I could get into your head. I could kill you right now and you wouldn't even be able to touch me. I could do _whatever I wanted_ with you, Shimada."

The response is immediate: a powerful urge to shift and snarl out a response to the challenge and a numbing current of arousal across his skin. Anger and exhilaration, twisted together, impossible to separate. Hanzo lets his teeth grow sharper to relieve some of the pressure, smirks and stands up as well.

"If you want to scare someone, McCree, don't try to protect them beforehand. It really kills your credibility as a monster." A step forward and they're nearly face to face; McCree inhales sharply, red eyes widening in alarm, and the demon still twisting under Hanzo's skin preens, satisfied. He lets his voice drop into a purr. "And I think you already know how I feel about your _freaky side_ , but if you require another proof," he stretches up, even closer, close enough to whisper into McCree's face, "you know where to find me."

At this distance, now that he's paying attention, he can discern a narrow circle of brighter, almost orange red around McCree's pupils. It makes the irises look even more like rings of flame. If only it wasn't nine in the fucking morning, and if they weren't in a brightly lit conference room, a stone's throw away from the entire team and about to have a very important meeting —

He takes a step back, breathes deep, wills his teeth back to normal. McCree is still staring, not moving except for the quick rise and fall of his chest.

"See you in the meeting," Hanzo says nonchalantly, turning on his heel. The door closes softly behind him. Five minutes and fifteen meters left to calm down his hammering heart.

* * *

"Spratly Islands." The screen fills with a deep blue scattered with green dots, like spilled marbles. "South China Sea, smack dab between Vietnam, Philippines and Borneo. One of the most contested parts of the world. Six countries have been fighting over it, more or less openly, since the nineteen-eighties. The islands themselves have little value, but whoever controls the region, controls the major shipping routes in Southeast Asia."

Click. Zoom in.

"All sides of the conflict have military presence in the region, and everyone watches everyone else's hands. The balance is fragile. Any disruption could cause an outright war."

"I feel like this is an _I have a bad feeling about this_ moment," Winston mutters to a few huffs of amusement around the table.

Morrison zooms in until an oval-shaped island, cut in half by an airstrip, fills the screen. "This is the largest island, Itu Aba. A hundred-ish acres of tropical forest, an airport of crucial strategic value, a bunch of supporting facilities, a couple of fisherman shacks and that's it. The photo you're looking at is two weeks old." Click. "And this is how the island looked yesterday."

"Wow," says Mei. Tracer whistles.

Morrison flips the image back and forth. A small complex of buildings south of the airstrip disappears under a half-constructed octagonal structure, reappears, disappears again. Next to him, Sombra perks up; she's been slumping in the chair until now, one leg pulled up, chin resting on the knee, the very picture of a bored child at a family dinner.

"And that's where you'll find your young and aspiring AI," she says cheerfully when the image zooms in for the last time.

Morrison sighs. "You just had to steal my thunder, didn't you."

"It's what I do, and everyone already guessed anyway." Sombra gestures mockingly at the screen. "Please, continue."

Morrison pinches the bridge of his nose before continuing. "About a week ago the island stopped communicating. At first the assumption was that they lost their Internet link, since it's been known to fail before. Eventually, a few patrols were sent. After none of them returned, every intelligence agency from China to Australia broke out in a cold sweat."

"Everyone suspects each other, so nobody can actually move in and figure out what's going on," says D.Va. "And a lot of fingers hover over big red buttons. Am I right?"

"Pretty much. Apparently the situation is bad enough that when someone in the know came across my inquiries, they jumped at the opportunity to get a third party to sort it out. Before you ask: I don't know who. It was heavily implied that at least some of the intelligence agencies came together to find a solution. The scale of the potential conflict is too big to ignore. And there's also the issue of _who_ is taking over the island, which Sombra appears to have figured out."

"Wasn't that hard after McCree tipped me off," Sombra says with unconcealed satisfaction. "I assume you want the short version? Talon obtained one of the seeds of the original God Program, developed it and planted it on that island. Oh, and they also tried to cripple you by removing Athena from the equation, and when that failed, decided that the best way to ensure that I don't help you again was to abduct me and keep me on a chain in Doomfist's fucking basement. I'm sure you understand why I wasn't a fan of that plan."

"Begs the question why they didn't just kill you," drawls McCree.

"Maybe they wanted a safety measure in case their little creation runs off the rails. Or, hey, maybe they just like me."

Both McCree and Tracer respond with snorts. For a moment everyone stares contemplatively at the island and the structure.

"I'm assuming it's got some androids to kickstart the operation," Torbjorn says finally. "That structure isn't building itself. Also, the first thing it's going to build is a reactor, and I'll eat my beard if that's not what we're looking at."

Reyes looks away from the screen and side-eyes Sombra. "I'm guessing that for some reason we can't just reupload your exploit." 

"Correct. The island is still cut off. They aren't _that_ stupid."

"Okay. Not to question your knowledge, of course, but how did the AI attack Athena, then?"

Sombra gives him a flat look. "You do know it was a botnet, right? A child can plug in a drive and run an executable. Nemesis put together the code and left it in Talon's hands for later use."

Reyes makes a disgusted face. " _Nemesis_?"

"Oh, I forgot to mention." Sombra breaks into a wide smile. "That's her name, Nemesis. She chose it herself. Because, you see, they made avenging the God Program her main development theme. And from what I was able to dig up, she's absolutely batshit insane."

"Fantastic," Reyes says flatly. "So all we have to do is get past six extremely paranoid countries and their patrols, an unknown number of Talon, and an insane AI with her puppets. Oh, and I assume that if we get caught or even noticed, we'll be publicly denounced, vilified and sacrificed. _Again_. You know what? Fuck that, I'm changing careers. Villains have it easier."

Morrison tries and fails to hide a small, fond smile behind his hand. It's the first time Hanzo's seen him smile since the attack, and it feels strangely like intruding in something private. "We _may_ get some help if we agree to intervene. Under all the conditions you mentioned, of course. But the first question is: do we intervene?"

"I say we do," D.Va says decisively. "I don't want a war in Asia, and I don't want a second Omnic War on top of it. And once that AI gets a reactor going…" She mimics an explosion with both hands. "Boom."

"We can vote on it." Morrison looks around the table. "But first, I need everyone to realize that if this goes wrong, it's most likely going to mean the end of Overwatch."

"…Again," Reyes repeats, arms folded.

"If you think we should intervene, raise a hand."

D.Va raises hers instantly, followed by Morrison, and more or less enthusiastic hands rise around the table. Hanzo raises his and steals a glance at McCree's lazily raised prosthetic palm, just to realize that McCree is watching him with half-lidded eyes. The temptation to show teeth is sudden and ridiculous enough that he looks away and bites his lip to control a smirk, and wonders if McCree was tempted to flash his eyes, too.

Reyes is the last one to groan theatrically and raise his hand like he's been forced to it.

Morrison pats him mock-consolingly on the shoulder. "The questions that remain are: how do we get there, how do we shut down the thing, how do we get out, and how do we do it all without being seen?"

"I can cook up a few variants of the exploit," Sombra shrugs. "She'll be expecting it, but she'll also be hardware-limited. Could work. Or you could blow her up the old-fashioned way, since you'll have to sneak right up to her anyway. Plant a charge and get out. She can't offload herself if she's cut off from the network."

"We have two trained ninja now," Genji says calmly, cutting a look at Hanzo. "Gabriel is stealthy as Reaper. Even McCree can be stealthy, sometimes. That should not be a problem."

It's strange, seeing Genji so calm. There had been so many meetings in which Genji sat with a faint sneer, all quips and sarcastic remarks, skirting the borders of defiance and constantly testing Hanzo's authority, like a flame dancing around ice — and now he's the collected and authoritative one. Without resorting to the shift. How ironic that it's Hanzo who's acting like a child now.

McCree gives Genji a dirty look. "Stealthy or not, still gotta get there in the first place. You can't sneak your way across the sea. Bet there's more patrol boats than fish 'round that place right now."

"And we can't fly in without getting noticed either," Tracer adds. "That island is tiny. Unless we go with a HALO drop, but then how do we get out?"

The room falls silent.

"If I may," Athena says after a moment. "If we can't get there by air or by sea, there's still one more viable option: underwater."

It takes all of five seconds before the memory comes back, as clear as if it was yesterday. One of Hanzo's better jobs: dangerous, risky, exhilarating and well paid.

"Dive from a moonpool," he says, and all heads turn towards him. "If we can get a small freighter with a moonpool close enough to the island, we can scuba dive. Get to the island in an unmonitored spot, wait as long as necessary for desaturation, sabotage the AI, dive again, meet pickup at agreed coordinates."

Morrison raises his eyebrows. "You dive?"

"I have, as part of my job," he says and waits until that sinks in. Morrison catches on quickly, if his bemused expression is any indication. "We'd need extra tanks. And we'd have to go deep enough not to risk getting ran over by patrol boats, so it would only work at a short distance —"

"Not necessarily," Reyes says gruffly. "We could borrow one of the submersibles SEALs use for underwater insertions. SEAL delivery vehicle, or the other one that I forgot the name of. Basically a slow, manned torpedo with a bunch of scuba support gear. That would solve both the distance problem and the air problem. Are you volunteering, then?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "I've done a very similar thing already."

Reyes casts a look around the room. "Anyone else got experience scuba diving?"

"I could just go alone. Assuming the vehicle comes with a pilot."

Reyes gives him a suspicious glare. "I thought you weren't supposed to scuba dive alone."

Hanzo shrugs. "I managed before. It's hard to find an assassin dive buddy."

"Yeah, but you're not an assassin anymore," Reyes snaps. "Anyone else?"

McCree shifts in his chair. "I ain't done scuba divin' before, but I did freedive a bit. Not much, down to like, thirty feet, but it's something, I guess?"

"That's enough to know you're able to equalize pressure." It comes out _way_ too eager. Hanzo winces internally and dials down the enthusiasm, but the damage is done. At least McCree doesn't give any indication that he's noticed. "You won't need much more if we're getting an underwater taxi. One day of practice in a pool and you'll be fine."

One corner of McCree's mouth lifts a little. "If you say so. Guess I'm volunteerin' too, then."

"Aww, how sweet," Sombra mocks with a fake smile. Hanzo resists sending her a glare; judging by her smirk, it would only encourage her.

"Thank you," Morrison says earnestly. "Looks like we have an agreement, then. Meeting's dismissed. Hanzo, McCree, stay and let's talk logistics."

Hanzo does his best to contain the excitement as the rest of the team files out of the room — some expressing jealousy, like Tracer and Genji, some, like Winston, giving him entirely undeserved thanks — but it still bubbles under his sternum, like he's about to go on a holiday instead of trying to stop a war.

"You're cheerful," McCree mutters as the door closes behind the last person.

"I've never assassinated an AI before," he murmurs back with the straightest face he can manage. "I can't _wait_."

  


Art by [questionartbox](http://twitter.com/nekodoruBox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to all the amazing people who helped me with this chapter! [clockworkferret](https://twitter.com/clockworkferret), [robo-cryptid](https://twitter.com/robocryptid), [BloomingCnidarians](https://twitter.com/bloomingjellies), [YourAverageJoke](https://twitter.com/YourAverageJoke), [coinin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinin), [vimeddiee](https://twitter.com/vimeddiee), [Linaloe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linaloe), [Q](https://twitter.com/quidditchbtch) — I wouldn't have done it without your help. <3 
> 
> Another big, big thank you goes to all my readers for your patience. The next update should HOPEFULLY happen much faster. (Speaking of which, be forewarned: there's a high chance of the rating changing to Explicit soon.) 
> 
> And, last but not least: this fic, and all others, is directly fueled by your feedback. If you liked it, please let me know!
> 
> PS Please, Tag Wranglers. Please. I'm begging you, canonize 'Assholes in Love'!...

**Author's Note:**

> Following the Tumblr exodus, I'm most active on Twitter these days.
> 
> https://twitter.com/matawrites


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